1 1¥  » 

^  PRINCETON,    N.    J.  ^' 


Shelf.. 


BX  5133    .H65  L6  1882 
Holland,  Henry  Scott,  1847- 
1918  . 

Logic  and  life   


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


https://archive.org/details/logiclifewithothOOholl 


LOGIC  AND  LIFE 


tout  I)  otljer  Sermons 


BY  THE  REV. 


H  S. "HOLLAND,  M.  A. 


SKNIOH  STUDENT  OF  CHRIST  CHURCH,  OXFORD 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S 
1882 


SONS 


Copyright  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Trow's 

Printing  and  Bookbinding  Company 
201-213  East  12th  Street, 

NEW  YORK. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


The  casual  reader  of  this  volume,  however  carelessly 
he  may  turn  its  leaves,  can  scarcely  fail  to  find  his 
attention  arrested  by  many  passages  which  are  striking 
for  fervid  eloquence  and  weighty  with  profound  re- 
flection. Should  he  be  led,  by  the  promise  of  its  title, 
to  select  here  or  there  a  single  discourse  for  a  more 
careful  perusal,  he  will  find  not  a  few  which  are  alike 
remarkable  for  originality  of  thought  and  eloquence 
of  speech.  The  theological  positions  of  the  author 
may  indeed  not  always  commend  themselves  to  our 
reflective  judgment.  His  interpretations  of  the  Script- 
ures may  now  and  then  seem  to  be  open  to  criticism, 
and  yet  we  shall  not  be  able  nor  shall  we  care  to  with- 
stand the  rush  of  the  highly-wrought  periods  and  the 
accumulated  force  of  the  spiritualized  imagination  of 
this  truly  eloquent  preacher. 

To  these  excellencies  and  attractions  there  are  others 
which  we  do  not  so  often  find  in  a  volume  of  published 
sermons.    Prominent  among  them  is  this  feature,  that 


iv 


Introductory  Notice. 


he  adapts  himself,  with  generous  sympathy  and  yet 
with  spiritual  mastery,  to  the  science  and  the  specula- 
tion of  the  times.  lie  distinctly  recognizes  the  spirit 
of  the  present  generation,  the  so-called  Time-Spirit, 
of  thought  and  feeling  in  respect  to  Christian  Truth 
and  the  Christian  Life,  which  prevails  among  the  most 
thoughtful  and  best  cultivated  men  of  the  most  influ- 
ential of  the  English  Universities.  lie  bravely  meets 
their  difficulties  by  carrying  them  to  higher  planes  of 
thought  than  Mr.  Spencer  or  Mr.  Mill  can  attain,  and 
often,  with  masterly  skill,  enthrones  Christian  Philoso- 
phy in  its  lawful  seat,  and  asserts  for  it  regal  honors 
from  the  instructed  intellect  and  the  sympathizing 
hearts  of  all  right-minded  Christian  scholars,  whether 
their  field  of  activity  is  Nature,  or  History,  or  Letters. 
Most  of  these  sermons  were  originally  preached  in  a 
University  pulpit.  They  are  not,  however, "  University 
sermons"  in  the  technical  sense  of  the  phrase.  There 
is  very  little  of  the  stiffness,  the  formality,  or  the 
remoteness  from  human  sympathies  and  associations 
which  often,  not  to  say  usually,  characterize  such 
sermons,  while  their  suitableness  to  men  of  the  most 
consummate  culture  is  manifest  on  every  page. 

We  have  not  written  these  lines  because  we  suppose 
that  these  discourses  need  any  words  of  ours  to  recom- 
mend them  to  the  many,  readers  in  our  country  who 
will  not  fail  to  welcome  them  with  cordial  and 
appreciative  sympathy.    If  they  should  serve  to  bring 


Introductory  Notice.  v 

the  volume  to  the  notice  of  any  who  otherwise  would 
not  have  read  its  contents,  they  will,  we  are  confident, 
thank  the  writer  for  this  humhle  service. 

K  P. 

Yale  College,  July,  1882. 


\theologigal 


PREFACE. 


The  publication  of  Sermons  needs  always  an  apology. 
Sermons  are  written,  and  given,  for  a  momentary 
purpose,  without  any  intention  that  they  should 
assume,  in  print,  a  permanent  existence,  or  he  de- 
tached from  the  occasion  and  the  congregation  for 
which  they  were  originally  designed.  Why,  then, 
give  them  this  unintended  permanence,  this  unforeseen 
detachment  ?  Why  address  the  reading  public  as 
if  it  were  a  gathered  congregation  ?  Why  throw 
loosely  abroad  what  was  delivered  within  the  shelter 
of  a  Church  ?  That  which  was  appropriate  under  the 
one  set  of  circumstances  is  hardly  likely  to  be  appro- 
priate in  the  other. 

This  is  true ;  and,  yet,  I  would  attempt  a  defence. 

We,  clergy,  suffer  under  difficulties  in  this  matter. 
We  cannot  lie  quiet,  while  we  slowly  accumulate 
the  materials  for  a  book.  We,  of  necessity,  find 
ourselves  preaching :  and,  naturally,  we  speak  of  what 
is  uppermost  in  our  minds ;  and  so  we  tell  our  secrets ; 
we  announce  ourselves  as  we  movef    If  we  happen 


vi 


Preface. 


to  be  following  out  certain  directions  of  theological 
nought,  then,  just  as  the  molehills  tell  the  lines  of 
lie  burrowing  mole,  so  we  throw  out,  in  sermons,  the 
.lanifest  tokens  of  our  path.    Those,  therefore,  of  us, 
\o  whom  it  is,  in  any  small  way,  given  of  God  to 
write  a  book,  practically  write  it  in  bits.    We  cannot 
store  our  material :  such  thinking  as  is  possible  to 
us  manifests  itself,  step  by  step,  under  the  pressure 
of  immediate  demands. 

What,  then,  are  we  to  do,  when  we  see  that  it  might 
be  right  for  us  to  believe  that  our  work  would  not 
be  quite  useless  or  unhelpful  to  others  than  those 
who  heard  us  speak  ?  Are  we  to  recast  it  all  ?  A 
good  deal  might  be  said  for  this;  and  yet,  it  would 
be  to  us  ourselves  an  irksome  and  unhealthy  task. 
It  is  one  thing  to  delay  production :  it  is  quite  another 
to  reproduce  and  refashion  what  has  once  already  taken 
form  and  shape.  Again,  we  have  moved  on :  we  are 
occupied  with  other  conditions  of  the  problem :  we  can- 
not easily  revive  the  old  ardour  with  which  we  expressed 
our  first  intuition  of  this  or  that  aspect  of  things.  The 
result,  therefore,  of  re- writing  our  own  productions  would 
be  an  inevitable  deadening  of  all  the  work :  we  should 
re-write  them,  wearied  and  bored  ;  for  though,  perhaps, 
the  public  will  not  believe  it,  very  few  of  us  are  fond 
enough,  or  proud  enough,  of  our  own  handiwork,  to  be 
able  to  enjoy  the  process  of  remaking  it.  We  should 
be  heartily  sick  of  it  before  we  had  done  ;  and  if  it 


Preface. 


vii 


was  written  wearily,  it  would  be  read  wearily.  It 
might  gain,  in  arrangement,  in  unity,  in  completeness  : 
it  would  lose  in  everything  else. 

I  therefore  venture  to  put  out  these  sermons,  just 
as  they  were  delivered :  only,  I  would  say,  that  they 
are  printed  for  the  purpose  with  which  books  are 
written,  rather  than  for  that  with  which  sermons 
are  preached.  They  are  offered,  not  as  hortative 
addresses,  so  much  as  for  the  sake  of  laying  before 
the  minds  of  many  who  now  find  themselves  astray, 
or  in  peril,  amid  the  tangle  of  life,  some  such  inter- 
pretation of  the  natural  and  spiritual  worlds  in 
which  we  move,  as  may  possibly  assist  them  in 
detecting  their  coherence  with  the  truth,  as  it  is 
in  Christ  Jesus.  It  is  presumptuous  to  use  such  high 
words  about  an  interpretation  so  partial,  aud  frag- 
mentary, and  slight,  as  is  given  in  this  book  :  it  does 
but  attempt  to  suggest  how  strongly  and  how  master- 
fully the  faith  which  was  held  by  St.  Athanasius, 
the  faith  in  Christ  of  St.  Paul  and  of  St.  John,  would, 
if  known  as  they  knew  it,  lay  hold  of  the  wealth  of 
modern  science,  and  of  the  secrets  of  modern  culture, 
and  of  the  desires  and  tbe  necessities  of  modern  spirit. 
We  have  lost  much  of  that  rich  splendour,  that  large- 
hearted  fulness  of  power,  which  characterizes  the  great 
Greek  masters  of  theology.  We  have  suffered  our 
faith  for  so  long  to  accept  the  pinched  and  narrow 
limns  of  a  most  unapostolic  divinity,  that  we  can  hardly 


Vlll 


Preface. 


persuade  people  to  recall  how  wide  was  the  sweep 
of  Christian  thought  in  the  first  centuries,  how  largely 
it  dealt  with  these  deep  problems  of  spiritual  existence 
and  development,  which  now  once  more  impress  upon 
us  the  seriousness  of  the  issues  amid  which  our  souls 
are  travelling.  "We  have  let  people  forget  all  that  our 
Creed  has  to  say  about  the  unity  of  all  creation,  or 
about  the  evolution  of  history,  or  about  the  univer- 
sality of  the  Divine  action  through  the  Word.  We 
have  lost  the  power  of  wielding  the  mighty  language 
with  which  Athanasius  expands  the  significance  of 
Creation  and  Regeneration,  of  Incarnation  and  Sacrifice, 
and  Redemption,  and  Salvation,  and  Glory. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  this  little  book  does  not 
pretend  to  attempt  the  task  here  suggested.  But  it 
may,  possibly,  just  serve  to  remind  some,  who  could 
undertake  it  more  worthily,  that  such  a  task  ought  to 
be  done :  or  it  may  happen,  by  good  grace,  to  relieve  a 
little  the  difficulties  that  haunt  many  souls,  by  hinting 
to  them  the  possibility  that  Christianity  holds  in  its 
heart  solutions  that  they  have  disregarded,  and  which 
it  would  be  well  worth  while  for  them  to  consider  and 
gamine.  It  may  just  help  to  recall  with  what  vivid 
•jlity  the  faith  of  Christ  could  speak,  if  we  only  would 
it,  to  the  actual  needs  of  the  day  and  of  the  hour ; 
and  with  how  close  a  touch,  with  how  clear  a  mastery, 
it  could  show  itself  at  home  in  a  world  that  we  fancied 
so  strange  to  its  spirit,  and  so  remote  from  its  words 


Preface. 


ix 


and  its  habits.  If  here  and  there  it  could  make  this 
credible  to  some  who  now  suffer  and  are  distressed 
through  the  traditions  that  have  cramped  the  large 
significance  of  the  Catholic  creed,  then  all  will  be  well 
with  it;  it  will  hsve  done  such  w>tk  as  was  possible 
for  it. 

The  Sermons,  though  detached,  follow  a  certain 
sequence.  The  first  three,  which  were  preached  before 
the  University  of  Oxford,  attempt  to  suggest  some  of 
the  conditions  under  which  the  intellectual  approaches 
to  a  creed  must  be  made.  The  two  following  touch  on 
the  moral  needs  and  efforts  which  are  presupposed  by 
the  coming  of  Christ;  and  the  next  four  attempt  to 
interpret  the  nature  of  the  response  made  to  these 
moral  necessities  by  the  Sacrifice  of  the  Cross.  After 
this  follow  four  sermons  on  the  spiritual  temper  which 
is  essential  to  any  realization  of  the  faith, — the  seeing 
eye,  the  awakened  spirit,  the  upward  look,  the  instinc- 
tive kinship.  I  then  make  an  effort  to  exhibit  and 
justify,  in  some  slight  measure,  one  or  two  of  the  central 
dogmas  of  the  Creed, — e.g.,  the  Trinity,  the  Incarnation  : 
and  after  these  sermons  follow  three  attempts  to  show 
some  aspects  of  the  office  and  work  of  the  Christian 
society  at  large,  and  of  its  responsibilities  in  face  of  the 
civil  and  social  facts  of  the  time.  The  last  two  sermons 
touch  on  the  nature  of  the  soul's  advance  in  faith,  and 
on  its  outlook  to  a  better  land. 

The  rough  sequence  here  indicated  does  not  pretend 


X 


Preface. 


to  give  to  the  book  the  integrity  and  fulness  of  a 
complete  treatise.  It  does  but  thread  loosely  together 
a  few  fragmentary  suggestions,  which  may  possibly 
make  the  growth  of  faith  easier  to  some  who  now 
find  their  free  movements  hampered  by  masses  of 
facts,  which  they  know  not  how  to  array  into  harmony 
with  the  life  which  the  spirit  desires.  Such  might 
feel  themselves  released  from  the  bondage  of  fear,  and 
.might  go  forward  with  a  gladder  confidence,  if  they 
could  once  put  their  inward  belief  into  an  intelligible 
relation  to  the  world  of  outer  fact.  Even  a  mere 
glimpse  into  the  possibilities  of  such  a  consistency, 
within  and  without,  is  a  relief  to  the  hindering  pressure, 
and  carries  with  it  good  cheer.  But  it  must  not  be 
supposed  for  one  moment  that  any  such  glimpses  or 
suggestions  will  be  sufficient  to  make  faith  exist  in 
those  who,  as  yet,  have  it  not.  Faith  is  not  made  by 
argument.  It  seeks,  indeed,  for  rational  solution  of  life's 
mysteries ;  it  grows  through  gaining  hold  of  them  ;  but 
its  origin,  its  creation,  is  not  in  these.  "  The  depth 
said,  It  is  not  in  me."  Not  from  things  without,  but 
from  the  heart  within,  cometh  wisdom:  there,  in  the 
inner  places  of  the  soul,  in  the  secret  will  with  which 
a  man  fears  the  Lord,  and  departs  from  evil,  is  the  true 
place  of  spiritual  understanding.  Intellectual  solutions 
can  only  be  of  value  to  those  whose  whole  being  already 
hungers  after  righteousness,  and  loathes  sin,  and  wills 
to  do  the  will  of  God,  and  abides  loyally  in  such  truth 


Preface. 


xi 


as  has  been  made  open  to  it,  and  seeks,  with,  earnest, 
prayerful  zeal,  deliverance  from  an  unworthy  slavery 
in  which  it  knows  the  good  and  does  the  evil.  It  is 
Christ,  not  reason,  that  makes  the  believer  free:  and 
it  is  the  Spirit  of  God  alone  Who  knoweth  the  deep 
things  of  God.  Faith,  then,  is  not  created  by  reason, 
but  "  cometh  of  God  "  only.  But,  since  the  Christ  in 
Whom  we  are  made  free  is  the  Word  of  God,  therefore, 
oil  the  working  of  reason  is  prophetic  of  Him  Who 
should  come :  and,  by  His  coming,  it  is  made  perfect  in 
Him  Who  is  the  Power  and  Wisdom  of  God.  Here, 
then,  is  at  once  the  limitation,  and  also  the  justification, 
of  all  our  efforts  to  exhibit  the  intelligibility  of  our 
creed. 

Deus,  vera  et  summa  Vita,  Qui  inveniri  Te  facis,  et 
pulsanti  aperis ;  Quern  nemo  quaerit,  nisi  admonitus : 
nemo  invenit,  nisi  purgatus;  Quern  nosse,  vivere  est: 
Te  labiis  et  corde  laudo,  benedico,  aaoro. 


CONTENTS. 


SERMON  I. 
iLogic,  anti  3Life. 

PAGE 

The  Word  was  with  God. — St.  John  i.  I    .....  I 


SERMON  II. 
STrjc  Ucntuve  of  ftrason. 

Through  faith,  we  understand  that  the  worlds  were  framed  by  the 
Word  of  God. — Heb.  xi.  3  21 


SERMON  III. 

dfje  Spirit,  anlJ  its  Interpretation. 

What  man  knoweth  the  things  of  a  man,  save  the  spirit  of  man 
which  is  in  him  ?  Even  so  the  things  of  God  knoweth  no  man, 
but  the  Spirit  of  God.—i  Cor.  iL  II  41 


SERMON  IV. 
Cfje  dost  of  Jffloral  ifHobemctrt. 

Unto  whomsoever  much  is  given,  of  him  shall  be  much  required: 
and  to  whom  men  have  committed  much,  of  him  they  will  ask  the 
more. — St.  Luke  xii.  48  62 


XIV 


Contents. 


SERMON  V. 
drjrist,  tije  Justification  of  a  Suffering  aJHorlo". 

PA<?E 

Having  made  known  unto  us  the  mystery  of  His  will,  according  to 
His  good  pleasure  which  He  hath  purposed  in  Himself :  that  in  the 
dispensation,  of  the  fulness  of  times  He  might  gather  together  in  one 
all  things  in  Christ.  In  Whom  also  we  have  obtained  an  in- 
heritance.— Eph.  i.  9-xi  81 


SERMON  VI. 

SCfje  Sacrifice  of  Ennocmie. 

That  I  may  go  unto  the  altar  of  God,  even  unto  the  God  of  my  joy 
and  gladness. — Ps.  xliJ.  4       .......  99 


SERMON  VII. 
drje  Sacrifice  of  tfje  jFallen. 
Then  said  I,  Lo,  I  come! — Ps.  xl.  7  .110 


SERMON  VIII. 
STfje  Sacrifice  of  tfje  fHan. 
A  body  hast  Thou  prepared  me. — Heb.  x.  5. 

By  the  which  will  we  are  sanctified  through  the  offering  of  the  body 
of  Jesus  Christ. — Heb.  x.  10   .121 


SERMON  IX. 
©je  Sacrifice  of  tfje  fteBcethco. 


Unto  you  it  is  given  in  the  behalf  of  Christ,  not  only  to  believe  on 
Him,  but  also  lo  suffer  for  His  sake. — Phil.  i.  29  .       .  133 


Contents. 


xv 


SERMON  X. 
lllje  Spiritual  Ege. 

PAGK 

Tkiy  are  not  of  the  world,  even  at  I  avi  net  cf  the  world.  .  .  . 
As  Thou  hast  sent  Me  into  *ke  world,  even  so  have  I  also  sent  them 
into  the  world. — St.  John  xvii.  lb,  16  ,       ,       .       .  144 

SERMON  XI. 
STrje  Breaking  of  Dreams. 
Walk  as  children  of  light. — Eph.  v.  8  103 

SERMON  XII. 

£>rjrrr>  ana  SrjcyljtrD. 

For  judgment  I  am  come  into  this  world,  that  they  which  see  not 
might  see;  and  that  they  which  see  might  be  made  blind. — Sr. 
John  ix.  39   .      .      ,  ^2 

SERMON  XIII. 
?Lobe,  tf)c  Earn  of  itfr. 

Thou  shall  love  the  Lord  thy  God ;  and  thy  neighbour  as  thyself. — 
Sr.  Luke  x.  27  Xgg 

SERMON  XIV. 

Cljc  i3Irssing  of  (Goo  aimightg,  tfjc  jFathcr,  trje  Son,  ano  tfje 
Jljolg  ffih-ost. 

J  looked,  and  behold,  a  door  was  opened  in  heaven. — Rev.  iv.  I      .  212 

SERMON  XV. 
£he  fflcckness  of  ffioo. 

The  Son  of  A/an  came  not  to  be  ministered  unto,  but  to  minister, 
and  to  give  //is  ti/e  a  ransom  /or  many. — S  r.  Matt.  xx.  28       .  227 


xvi 


Contents. 


SERMON  XVI. 
GEfje  iftofocrs  tfjat  be. 

PAGE 

There  is  no  power  but  of  God:  the  powers  that  be  are  ordained  of 
Cod. — Kom.  xm.  I  c  240 


SERMON  XVII. 
CEfje  Sfooro  of  St.  jJHicfael. 

There  was  war  in  heaven :  Michael  and  his  angels  fought  against 
the  Drag-on. — Rev.  xii.  7  254 


SERMON  XVIII. 
Cije  IStmcjDom  of  ftigfjtcousnrss. 

Are  your  minds  set  upon  righteousness,  0  yt  congregation :  and  do 
yefi..  '^  - thing  that  is  right,  O  ye  sons  of  men. — Ps.  IviiL  1  .271 


SERMON  XIX. 
STfje  pruning  of  tfje  Fine. 

/  am  the  true  Vine,  and  My  Father  is  the  Husbandman :  Every 
branch  in  Me  that  beareth  not  fruit  He  taketh  away,  and  every 
branch  that  beareth  fruit,  He  purgeth  it  that  it  may  bi  ins;  forth 
more  fruit. — St.  John  xv.  1,  2  28s 


SERMON  XX. 
€fy  SIctu,  ano  tfje  Shaking. 

Then  shall  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  be  likened  unto  ten  virgins, 
which  took  their  lamps,  and  went  forth  to  meet  the  Biidegroom. — 
St.  Matt.  xxv.  i  305 


LOGIC  AND  LIFI 

tDttl)  otljcr  £>crm0ii0 


4 


SERMON  L 

LOGIC,  AND  LIFE. 
*'  GTfje  iMaort)  foas  foitf)  fflofi."— St.  John  L  i. 

One  main  lesson  that  all  of  us  are  steadily  learning 
from  many  teachers,  and  with  varying  effect,  is  the 
reality,  and  universality,  of  movement.  That  fixed  and 
solid  framework  of  things  which  men  called  Nature, 
and  in  which  they  seemed  to  see  the  very  image  of  rigid 
and  unchanging  law,  the  shadow  of  God's  own  Per- 
manence, of  His  constant  and  enduring  Immutability, 
has  been  broken  up  under  the  keen  insight  of  the  new 
criticism.  It  has  felt  the  sway  and  swing  of  motion : 
the  activities  of  a  living  process  have  been  seen  to 
shoot  along  all  the  inner  passages  of  its  huge  bulk :  it 
has  become  in  our  eyes  no  fixed  embodiment  of  law, 
but  a  moving,  growing,  changing  mass,  building  itself  up 
by  slow  and  laborious  pressure,  by  endless  transforma- 
tion :  its  very  rocks,  the  type  of  all  solid  immobility, 
have  been  watched  at  their  growth,  have  been  detected 
in  their  silent  changes :  the  whole  round  world  has 
been  set  moving ;  it  has  been  in  motion  from  the  first, 
and  still  its  movements  proceed ;  from  hour  to  hour 
it  ceases  to  be  what  once  it  was,  it  passes  on  towards 
new  arrangements  and  novel  combinations. 

Nor  is  it  otherwise  with  that  other  world  in  which 

A 


2 


Logic,  a?id  Life. 


man  loved  to  find  the  reflex  of  eternal  Fixity.  The 
world  of  spirit,  of  reason,  of  intuition,  offers  u»  no  more, 
apparently,  the  picture  of  a  Median  kingdom,  ordered 
from  end  to  end,  whose  laws  and  instit^ions  never 
know  the  weakness  of  change.  Our  eye  no  longer  falls 
upon  a  table  of  unalterable  commandments,  set  up  in 
the  thoughts  of  savage  and  civilized  alike,  pre-supposi- 
tions,  decrees,  assumptions,  to  which  all  rational  beings 
instinctively  conform.  Here,  too,  the  light  of  criticism 
detects  movement  at  work  within  all  that  seems  most 
fixed :  it  exhibits  growth  and  change  in  operation  upon 
the  mind  itself,  forming  its  first  intuitions,  building  up 
its  premisses,  shaping  its  gradual  action.  More  than 
this,  the  very  emotions  themselves, — the  primary  efforts 
of  sensation  at  the  root  of  all  our  being, — have  known 
the  slow  process  of  formation  and  transformation.  Man 
does  not  feel  as  once  he  felt,  any  more  than  he  thinks 
as  once  he  thought. 

It  may,  indeed,  well  be  doubted  whether  the  detection 
of  movement  in  all  worlds  can  conceivably  represent  the 
final  or  absolute  aspect  of  things  ;  but  it  at  least  carries 
us  a  long  way  ;  it  is  obviously  true  over  an  immense 
field  of  fact.  And  I  have  ventured  therefore  to  recall, 
without  discussion,  its  larger  significance  before  noticing 
its  results  in  one  peculiar  direction. 

All  things,  then,  are  undergoing  a  process  of  shift  or 
change, — that  is  anyhow  what  we  learn :  within  as  well 
as  without,  a  deep  and  silent  movement  is  everywhere 
at  work,  altering,  transposing,  correcting,  enlarging. 
We  hardly  feel  it,  or  hear,  except  that  now  and  again 
there  is  a  sudden  and  awful  shake,  as  some  ponderous 


Logic,  and  Life. 


3 


mass  heaves  or  tumbles :  for  a  moment  we  stop,  and 
strain  our  ears  to  listen  to  its  hollow  thunder,  its  dim 
reverberation;  but  that  is  all:  only  that  soon,  upon  the 
surface  of  life,  results  appear  that  were  not  there  before  : 
we  are  startled  to  encounter  strange  evidences  of  those 
deep,  unknown  convulsions  :  something  has  occurred,  we 
see,  that  alters  the  face  of  things :  we  note  down  a  change. 

Now,  one  such  change  we  can  certainly  all  observe 
in  the  nature  of  modern  argument.  Men  nowadays 
dislike  deduction  ;  they  distrust  all  positive  reasoning  : 
they  are  not  overcome  by  logical  proof :  and  naturally. 
For  it  was  one  thing  to  argue,  when  reason  was  regarded 
as  possessed  of  a  scheme  of  abiding  and  irresistible  rules, 
without  which  it  could  not  act,  and  with  which  it 
advanced  to  new  ground,  by  a  certain  process  of  its  own, 
a  process  over  which  it  possessed  entire  control,  which 
it  dominated  from  end  to  end,  and  by  which  it  reached 
results  which  its  own  innate  criticism  could  ascertain, 
test,  overhaul,  ratify  :  it  was  one  thing  for  men  to  meet 
each  other  in  the  tournament  of  Dialectic,  when  each 
was  supposed  to  possess  the  same  identical  weapon  'is 
any  other,  the  same  reasoning  faculty,  in  the  same 
condition  of  use,  obeying  the  same  stipulations,  wielded 
with  perfectly  equal  facility.  But  argument  becomes 
quite  another  thing,  when  the  means  of  argument  is  not 
so  much  a  tool  as  an  organ,  a  function,  the  constitution 
of  which  is  no  necessary  and  unalterable  scheme,  with 
certain  uses  and  characteristics  of  its  own,  from  all 
eternity;  but  rather  a  living  formation,  moulded  by 
long  and  slow  efforts,  determined,  more  or  less,  by 
experience  and  habit,  susceptible  of  a  thousand  in- 


4 


Logic,  and  Life. 


fluences  from  external  conditions,  itself  a  living,  fluid, 
moving  substance,  capable  of  infinite  variety,  changing 
as  the  years  change,  possessed,  it  may  be,  of  a  peculiar 
unity  and  identity  of  type  which  it  preserves  throughout 
all  its  changes,  but  still,  for  all  that,  capable  of  a 
thousand  different  degrees  of  development,  so  that  its 
action  in  one  man  may  differ  indefinitely  from  its  action 
in  another,  its  force  and  effectiveness  depending  always 
on  the  stage  of  development  attained.  This  is  reason, 
this  the  mind,  as  many  men  now  fancy  it :  and  if  so, 
they  naturally  and  instinctively  reject  all  possibility 
of  an  infallible  and  universal  logic,  to  the  convincing 
necessities  of  which  all  must  bow.  Such  logic  only 
represents  the  present  momentary  structure  that  your 
mind  has  taken  at  this  particular  stage  of  human  history: 
it  lias  force  to  you  to-day :  but  once  it  would  have  been 
a  sheer  impossibility,  and  to-morrow  will  already  have 
affected  its  validity,  and  have  begun  to  turn  it  into  idle 
antiquarianism. 

From  such  a  point  of  view  as  this  (the  exact  accuracy 
or  limitation  of  which  I  do  not  now  propose  to 
discuss),  we  do  not  depend  for  our  position  on  posi- 
tive argument,  on  producible  proofs.  These  pass  us 
by :  they  sound  thin  and  unreal ;  we  do  not  know 
what  to  make  of  them  :  they  may  seem  as  convincing, 
as  unanswerable,  as  ever,  but  we  do  not  somehow  care 
to  take  the  trouble  to  answer  them  :  we  do  not  believe 
in  them  ;  a  syllogism,  a  dilemma,  all  the  old  apparatus, 
is  accepted  with  respectful  attention,  but  it  does  not 
persuade,  it  does  not  really  move  or  influence  ;  it  has 
lost  its  compelling  force.    More  especially  is  this  true 


Logic,  and  Life. 


5 


in  the  highest  and  fullest  subjects.  In  politics  it  has 
long  been  proverbial.  "We  learned  there  long  ago  that 
constitutions  were  not  made,  but  grew  ;  that  there  was 
no  rigorous  and  imperative  logical  standard ;  that 
systems  depended  on  the  temper  of  the  people,  on  the 
assumptions  which  were  natural  to  the  genius  of  one 
nation,  but  which,  in  another,  you  would  look  for  in 
vain ;  that  there  was  no  forcing  things  down  men's 
throats,  no  possibility  of  moving  the  masses  by  sheer, 
unalloyed  reason,  no  security  that  an  argument  which 
availed  with  one  class  would  equally  affect  another,  or 
that  an  appeal  to  this  or  that  motive  could  be  counted 
upon  as  a  constant  quantity  over  all  time  and  in  all 
places.  And  Science,  now,  by  its  emphasis  on  experience, 
trains  men  to  a  like  indifference  to  the  force  01  aoscract 
argument ;  indeed,  it  itself  is  almost  as  indifferent  as 
common  sense  to  the  necessities  of  logical  consistency. 
It  is  perfectly  content,  in  most  cases,  to  fall  in  with  a 
philosophy  which  denies  the  validity  of  all  those  palmary 
hypotheses  on  which  Science  itself  depends  :  yet  it  can 
only  be  sheer  indifference  to  logic  which  makes  it  put 
up  with  a  bedfellow  so  uncongenial  and  treacherous.  In 
reality,  what  does  it  matter  to  Science  if  its  assumption 
of  permanent  Causality  be,  according  to  its  own  chosen 
logic,  unproven,  unverified,  absurd  ?  It  still  goes  on  its 
way  with  robust  assurance ;  for,  at  the  bottom  of  its 
heart,  it  knows  that  it  can  dispense  with  an  appeal  to 
deductive  consistency,  so  long  as  it  has  that  far  more 
convincing  ally  on  its  side,  the  alliance  of  its  own 
inherent  belief  in  itself — a  belief  warranted  by  the  as- 
sent of  all  reasonable  men  to  whom  its  assumptions  have 


6 


Logic,  and  Life. 


become  the  natural  and  undeniable  facts,  that  Science 
assumes  them  to  be.  Not  for  a  moment  do  we,  or  any 
one  else  who  has  once  realised  the  scientific  aspect  of 
the  world,  doubt  its  reality,  its  trustworthiness,  its  sure- 
ness  of  foot.  Whither  it  carries  us,  we  follow :  we  may 
dispute  its  entire  universality :  we  may  believe  that  we 
see  its  limits :  but,  while  we  are  on  its  ground,  while  we 
are  moving  within  its  dominion,  we,  if  we  have  once 
understood  its  appeal,  are  su*e  to  accept  its  arguments, 
and  proofs,  and  conclusions ;  we  feel  it  foolish  to  deny 
them  :  we  should  be  attempting  to  fly  from  our  own  minds 
if  we  tried  to  avoid  their  persuasive  force, — a  force  that 
retains  its  vigour  undulled  and  undiminished  in  spite  of 
the  most  obvious  weakness  of  its  speculative  ground- 
work. I  do  not  intend  to  imply  that  Science  has  no 
rational  consistency,  but  only  to  notice  this,  that  it  can 
audaciously  refuse  the  assistance  of  any  logical  certainty, 
without  apparently  loosening  at  all  the  binding  power  of 
its  appeal,  so  sure  is  it  of  men's  spontaneous  assent. 

And,  if  this  attitude  of  mind  is  already  recognised  in 
Politics  and  in  Science,  we  shall  not  be  surprised  to  find 
it  affecting  the  character  of  the  arguments  that  avail 
in  the  still  more  complex  fields  of  Religion. 

Men  do  not  care  much  for  logical  proofs  of  the  being 
of  God,  or  of  the  possibility  of  miracle.  Reason  may 
assert,  perhaps  unanswerably,  the  intellectual  necessity 
for  the  existence  of  a  single  Supreme  Creator ;  it  may  ex- 
hibit irresistibly  that  any  logic,  based  on  mere  empiricism, 
is  powerless  to  demonstrate  the  necessity  of  irreversible 
laws  in  Nature.  Still  men  remain  as  doubting,  as  un- 
easy, as  before ;  still  the  pressure  of  Science  continues 


Logic,  and  Life. 


7 


to  drive  steadily  against  the  miraculous;  still  the  creep- 
ing tide  slides  in  almost  like  some  blind  and  enormous 
fate,  that  has  no  ears  for  our  voice  to  enter,  and  moves 
by  some  impulsion,  alien  to  our  cries,  untouched  by  our 
endeavours. 

We  still  carry  on  the  war  of  argument ;  but  the  results 
of  the  conflict  seem  too  distant  to  be  taken  into  much 
account :  and  we  have  but  little  heart  to  throw  into  dis- 
cussions, which,  endless  themselves,  yet  have  no  distinct 
end  to  attain,  and  achieve  so  little,  and  convince  so  few. 

After  all  has  been  argued  out,  men  throw  over  the  argu- 
ment: for  behind  the  intellectual  battle  lies  the  region  of 
conviction,  that  mental  condition  which  is  sensitive  to 
one  appeal  and  not  to  another, — that  mental  condition 
which  cannot  be  gainsayed,  cannot  be  upset  or  discomfited 
by  any  momentary  difficulty, — that  mental  atmosphere 
which  admits  one  impression  and  repels  another  by 
some  instinctive  method  of  its  own, — that  mental  struc- 
ture which  the  long  years  have  laboriously  built,  and 
which  nothing  but  the  long  years  will  ever  unmake,  or 
refashion.  What  is  the  need  of  struggling  over  this 
or  that  logical  detail  ?  At  the  end  of  it  all,  the  man 
under  attack  will  pass  all  argument  by  with  a  wave  of 
his  hand  :  miracle,  for  instance,  he  will  say,  cannot  offer 
itself  in  any  conceivable  shape  to  my  imagination  ;  it  is 
no  good  proving  to  me  that  it  ought  to  appear  perfectly 
probable  :  as  a  fact,  its  improbability  increases  every 
time  I  look  at  it. 

Such  is  the  state  of  things, — it  exists  as  well  for  us 
as  for  those  who  differ  from  us  :  we  have  the  same 
sense  as  they  of  hollowness  and   insufficiency  and 


8 


Logic,  and  Life. 


remoteness,  as  we  listen  to  old  abstract  argumentation, 
while  it  deals  with  the  living  things  of  spirit  and  of 
God.  True,  we  may  still  believe  that  that  high  meta- 
physic  has  its  place,  has  its  office,  has  its  reality ; 
but  yet  we  seem  to  be  standing  for  the  time  on  some 
different  levels  to  it :  and  on  these  lower  levels  we  hardly 
know  what  to  say  to  it,  or  where  to  rely  upon  it :  we 
feel  hazy  and  uncomfortable  as  it  delivers  its  decrees : 
we  seem  to  have  so  little  grip  upon  its  method,  the 
words  may  sound  strong  as  ever,  yet  the  tale  has  but 
little  meaning  for  us :  it  fails  to  make  its  entry  good 
within  the  substance  and  fibres  of  our  real  life.  This 
is  our  condition :  and  if  this  is  so,  it  may  be  well  to 
examine  a  few  of  the  characteristics  of  such  a  state  of 
mind  ;  for  only  by  understanding  it  can  we  control 
it ;  and  only  by  retaining  it  in  our  control  can  we  avoid 
sinking  in  irrational  submission,  under  forces  that  may 
carry  us  whither' we  would  not. 

Suffer  me  to  touch  on  one  or  two  of  its  obvious 
principles  and  perils.  This  modern  way  of  regarding 
things  does  not  in  reality  suppose  itself  irrational,  be- 
cause it  distrusts  abstract  argument :  rather,  it  is  the 
conception  of  reason  itself  which  is  changed ;  reason  is 
regarded,  not  in  its  isolated  character  as  an  engine 
with  which  every  man  starts  equipped,  capable  of 
doing  a  certain  job  whenever  required,  with  a  definite 
and  certain  mode  of  action  ;  but  it  is  taken  as  a  living 
and  pliable  process  by  and  in  which  man  brings  him- 
self into  rational  and  intelligent  relation  with  his 
surroundings,  with  his  experience.  As  these  press  in 
upon  him,  and  stir  him,  and  move  about  and  around 


Logic,  and  Life. 


9 


him,  he  sets  himself  to  introduce  into  his  abounding 
and  multitudinous  impressions,  something  of  order,  and 
system,  and  settlement.  He  has  got  to  act  upon  all  tins 
engirdling  matter,  and  he  must  discover  how  action  is 
most  possible  and  most  successful :  he  must  watch,  and 
consider,  and  arrange,  and  find  accordance  between  his 
desires  and  their  outward  realisation :  so  it  is  'that  he 
names  and  classifies :  so  it  is  that  he  learns  to  expect, 
to  foretell,  to  anticipate,  to  manage,  to  control :  so  it  is 
that  he  rouses  his  curiosity  to  ever  new  efforts,  and 
cannot  rest  content  until  he  has  got  clearer  and  surer 
hold  on  the  infinite  intricacies  that  offer  themselves 
to  hand,  and  eye,  and  ear,  and  taste.  Continually  he 
re-shapes  his  anticipations,  continually  he  corrects  his 
judgments,  continually  he  turns  to  new  researches, 
continually  he  moulds  and  enlarges,  and  enriches,  and 
fortifies,  and  advances,  and  improves  the  conceptions 
which  he  finds  most  cardinal  and  most  effective.  Undis- 
turbed in  his  primary  confidence  that  he  has  a  rational 
hold  upon  the  reality  of  the  things  which  he  feels  and 
sees,  he  acts  on  the  essential  assumption  that,  in  ad- 
vancing the  active  effectiveness  of  his  ideas,  he  is 
arriving  at  a  more  real  apprehension  of  that  world 
which  he  finds  to  move  in  increasing  harmony  with 
his  own  inner  expectations.  This  effective  and  growing 
apprehension  is  what  he  calls  his  reason :  and  its  final 
test  lies  in  the  actual  harmony,  which  is  found  to  result 
from  its  better  endeavours,  between  the  life  at  work 
within  and  the  life  at  work  without.  Iteason  is  the 
slowly  formed  power  of  harmonizing  the  world  of  facts : 
and  its  justification  lies,  not  in  its  deductive  certainty  so 


IO 


Logic,  and  Life. 


much  as  in  its  capacity  of  advance,.  It  proves  its  trust- 
worthiness by  its  power  to  grow.  It  could  not  have 
come  so  far  if  it  were  not  on  the  right  road :  it  must  be 
right,  because  ever,  in  front  of  it,  it  discovers  the  road 
continuing.  Eeason  moves  towards  its  place,  its  fulfil- 
ment, so  far  as  it  settles  itself  into  responsive  agreement 
with  the  facts  covered  by  its  activity,  so  far  as  its 
expectations  encounter  no  jar  or  surprise,  so  far  as  its 
survey  is  baffled  by  no  blank  and  impenetrated  barriers. 
Every  step  that  tends  to  complete  and  achieve  this 
successful  response  tends,  in  that  same  degree,  to  enforce 
its  confident  security  in  itself  and  in  its  method. 

Now,  whatever  be  the  metaphysical  problems  which 
such  a  position  leaves  untouched  and  unresolved,  one 
thing,  at  any  rate,  it  must  bring  forward  into  clear  and 
emphatic  distinction,  and  that  is  the  serious,  the 
tremendous  responsibility  incurred  by  us  in  our  use  of 
Eeason.  In  former  days,  the  working  of  thought  was 
regarded  as  beyond  our  control :  it s  was  a  separate 
faculty,  endowed  with  laws,  principles^  schemes, 
methods  of  its  own :  its  announcements  proceeded  by 
some  infallible  and  necessary  rules,  identical  everywhere, 
identical  in  all :  we  had  no  more  to  do  with  its  ways 
and  customs  than  we  had  with  the  arrangement  of 
heart  or  brain.  It  was  a  tool  that  had  one  use  and 
no  other.  But  now  it  appears  that  we  have  to  do,  more 
or  less,  with  the  actual  construction  and  nature  of  the 
reasoning  organ  itself.  This  construction  is  alive,  and 
every  instant  sees  it  change :  it  is  no  isolated  faculty 
where  workings  can  continue,  or  be  watched  "  in  vacuo," 
as  we  can  watch  the  movements  of  a  machine  even 


Logic,  and  Life. 


when  it  lias  no  material  to  work  upon.  Rather  is  it  to 
be  held  in  unbroken  connection  with  the  facts  on  which 
it  works,  for  only  in  relation  to  them  is  its  success,  its 
truth,  obvious,  or  verifiable,  or  intelligible.  Its  force, 
its  persuasive  potency  over  the  man  in  whom  it  acts, 
lies  in  the  manner  in  which  it  offers  to  group,  and 
arrange,  and  present  a  certain  body  of  fact.  If  it  can  so 
order  the  various  and  manifold  facts  before  the  man, 
as  to  make  him  feel  them  to  be  in  harmony  with  the 
whole  mass  of  his  experience,  so  that  he  can  move  up 
and  down  the  domain  covered  by  his  knowledge  with 
ease,  and  regularity,  and  evenness,  and  fair  consistency, 
then  he  accepts  its  work  with  secure  and  unhesitating 
peace.  But,  if  so,  everything  depends  on  the  character 
of  the  facts  before  him,  and  on  the  nature  of  his  main 
experiences.  The  excellence  of  a  piece  of  reasoning  lies 
simply  in  its  adaptive  facility,  in  the  response  it 
evokes  between  those  particular  new  impressions  and  the 
mass  of  older  and  habitual  experiments.  Change  the 
facts,  or  the  experience,  and  its  excellence  disappears, — 
it  becomes  unintelligible. 

It  is  on  our  inner  and  actual  life,  then,  that  the 
action  of  our  reasoning  depends.  Deep  down  in  the 
long  record  of  our  past,  far  away  in  the  ancient  homes 
and  habits  of  the  soul,  back,  far  back,  in  all  that  age- 
long experience  which  has  nursed,  and  tended,  and 
moulded  the  making  of  my  manhood,  lies  the  secret  of 
that  efficacy  which  reason  exerts  in  me  to-day.  That 
efficacy  has,  through  long  pressure,  become  an  imbedded 
habit,  which,  if  I  turn  round  upon  it  and  suddenly 
inspect  it,  will  appear  to  me  inexplicable.    Why  this 


12 


Logic,  and  Life. 


gigantic  conclusion  ?  Why  this  emphatic  pronounce- 
ment ?  Why  this  array  of  dogmatic  assumptions  ?  I 
may  take  those  assumptions  up  in  my  hands,  and  look 
them  all  over,  and  poke  and  probe  them,  and  find 
no  answer  in  them  for  their  mysterious  audacity.  No, 
for  they  have  no  answer  within  themselves :  their 
answer,  their  verification,  their  evidence,  their  very 
significance,  can  only  be  got  by  turning  to,  and  intro- 
ducing all  that  vast  sum  of  ever-oatherin"  facts  which 
the  generations  before  me,  under  the  weight  of  the 
moving  centuries,  pressed  into  these  formulae,  ordered 
under  these  categories,  wielded  by  the  efficacy  of  these 
instruments,  harmonized,  mastered,  controlled  in  obedi- 
ence to  these  judgments, — judgments  which  justified 
their  reality  and  their  power  by  the  constant  and 
unwavering  welcome  with  which  the  advance  of  life 
unfailingly  greeted  their  anticipations,  and  fulfilled  their 
trust.  I  am,  of  necessity,  blind  to  their  force  as  long 
as  I  have  no  corresponding  experience, — as  long  as  that 
body  of  fact  which  they  make  explicable  remains  to  me 
unverified  and  unexplored.  What  to  me,  for  instance, 
can  be  the  potency  of  the  conception  of  Soul,  if  I  have  no 
soul-facts  that  require  explication  ?  I  feel  the  need  and 
necessity  of  a  name  only  when  there  are  certain  pheno- 
mena before  me  which  no  other  name  suits  or  sorts. 
What  need  or  necessity,  then,  can  I  see  for  the  word 
Spirit,  unless  I  have,  within  my  experience,  those 
spiritual  activities  which  were  to  my  forefathers  so 
marked,  so  distinct,  so  unmistakable,  so  constant,  that 
it  became  to  them  a  mental  impossibility  to  retain  them 
under  a  material  name,  and  a  practical  impossibility  to 


Logic,  and  Life. 


13 


carry  on  an  intelligible  common  life  without  distinguish- 
ing those  activities  from  the  motions  of  their  flesh  ? 
What  sense  or  reason  can  I  discover  for  the  assump- 
tion of  a  God,  unless  I  can  repeat  and  re-enact  in  the 
abysses  of  my  own  hidden  being  those  profound  im- 
pressions, those  ineradicable  experiences,  those  awful 
and  sublime  ventures  of  faith  to  which  the  existence  of 
God  has  been  the  sole  clue,  the  sole  necessity,  the  one 
and  only  interpretation,  the  irresistible  response,  the 
obvious  evidence,  the  unceasing  justification  ? 

And  yet  how  difficult  is  the  matter  to  which  these 
announcements  apply  '  The  complexities  of  the  physi- 
cal world  make  it  hard  enough,  without  persistent 
experience  of  the  facts,  to  understand  the  full  force 
of  the  intellectual  expressions  in  which  Science  sums 
them  together.  But  here,  in  the  spiritual  world,  the 
experience  must  be  yet  more  attentive  and  per- 
sistent, if  it  is  ever  to  appreciate  the  proclamations 
made  about  Soul  and  Spirit  and  God.  For,  how  far 
more  intricate  is  the  matter  with  which  these  ex- 
pressions deal !  How  infinitely  subtle  !  How  many- 
sided  !  How  quick,  and  changing,  and  complex  ! 
How  swiftly  its  phenomena  enter  and  pass  !  How 
multitudinous  its  operations !  How  far-reaching  its 
activities !  How  profound  its  surprises !  How  con- 
fusing and  startling,  and  dazzling,  and  astounding  all 
its  sudden  and  rapid  transitions ;  all  the  fallings  from 
us,  vanishings,  blank  misgivings,  all  its  high  instincts, 
its  first  affections,  its  shadowy  recollections  !  Who  is  it 
that  is  going  to  pronounce,  at  a  glance,  on  the  value  of 
t  lie  formulae,  by  which  men  have  brought  under  intclli- 


Logic,  and  Life. 


gible  order  this  vast  and  overwhelming  world  of  spiritual 
impressions  ?  No  !  Only  in  intimate  and  undivided 
communion  with  the  facts  which  they  express,  have 
the  announcements  of  the  reason,  on  any  field  of 
knowledge,  any  intelligible  value ;  and  no  one,  there- 
fore, who  does  not  live,  and  move,  and  have  his  being, 
in  constant  intercourse  with  this  spirit-life  can  enter 
into  the  deep  necessities  of  its  laws,  any  more  than  an 
untrained  savage  would  be  sensitive  to  the  potency 
which  an  experimental  proof  exercises  over  the  disci- 
plined intelligence  of  a  scientific  explorer.  We  must 
live  in  no  casual  contact  with  spirit,  if  we  ever  intend  to 
understand  it.  For  Reason  tells  us  nothing  trustworthy 
of  itself  ;  it  is  in  its  applicability  to  fact  that  its  surest 
test  lies :  it  is  by  its  sense  of  its  steady  advance  in 
expressing  the  facts  that  it  feels  its  true  security:  it  is 
1  y  long  and  active  familiarity  with  the  facts  that  it 
appreciates  their  ultimate  necessities.  This,  which  is 
the  rule  under  which  Reason  has  laboriously  built  up 
the  facts  of  natural  experience  into  an  ordered  world, 
must  be  the  rule  also  of  all  its  dealings  with  that 
large  mass  of  spiritual  facts  out  of  which  it  learns,  by 
patient  experience,  the  form  and  fashion  of  super- 
natural life.  Slowly  the  significance  and  the  harmony 
of  those  spiritual  events  grow  luminous;  and  their 
perspective  reveals  its  steadier  outlines.  By  touching, 
by  handling,  by  tasting,  by  apprehending  these  spiritual 
facts,  Reason  forces  its  way  along ;  it  compels  them  to 
exhibit  order,  it  shifts  and  moves  and  crosses  them  from 
place  to  place  ;  it  corrects,  it  extracts,  it  penetrates  their 
significance,  until  the  day  breaks  clearer  and  purer, 


Logic,  and  Life. 


15 


and  the  strong  powers  that  hold  the  spiritual  fabric  in 
adamantine  chains  stand  out  with  visible,  with  undeni- 
able insistence,  and  tbe  great  vision  opens,  and  the  large 
spaces  become  light,  and  the  sun  leaps  out,  and  the 
vast  heavens  are  aglow,  and  all  about  and  around  him 
a  fresh  life  spreads,  lordlier  than  the  natural,  in  ordered 
and  abundant  wealth  of  colour,  and  splendour,  and  peace. 
It  is  a  new  and  supernatural  world  that  now  at  last 
lies  in  broad  and  solid  expanse  under  his  spiritual  eyes, 
and  it  does  so,  because  he  has  fed  his  rational  experience 
with  unfailing  supplies  of  supernatural  fact.  This,  and 
this  alone,  is  the  rule  by  which  his  reason  can  achieve 
its  task  or  discover  its  justification :  this  is  the  sole 
law  of  its  highest  endeavours.  Yea,  for,  in  so  doing, 
it  obeys  the  law  of  that  Divine  Reason  in  Whose  image 
it  is  made, — of  that  Word,  of  Whom  it  is  said,  "  the 
Word  was  with  God." 

The  Word,  the  sole  source  and  spiing  of  all  our 
intelligence,  Who  is  the  thought  and  reason  of  the 
Eternal,  has  never  ceased  to  hold  unbroken  communion 
with  that  God,  Whom  it  is  His  high  privilege,  His 
endless  joy,  to  see,  and  know,  and  understand.  The 
Word,  now  and  ever,  remains  "  with  God."  Away  from 
God,  apart  from  that  resolute  and  enduring  intimacy 
which  knits  Him  by  the  bands  and  cords  of  unfailing 
love  to  the  very  heart  and  life  of  the  Most  High,  there 
would  be  no  possible  intelligence  of  what  God  is,  no 
perfect  and  absolute  knowledge,  no  power  of  final 
revelation.  In  His  Sonship  lies  the  secret  of  all  His 
knowledge :  bound  to  the  Father,  turned  ever  to  the 
Father,  never  alone,  but  for  ever  with  the  Father,  for 


i6 


Logic,  and  Life. 


ever  abiding  in  that  endless  intercourse,  that  loyal 
familiarity,  that  glory  of  the  Father's  nearness,  of  His 
presence,  of  His  power,  in  that  union  which  He  had 
with  God  before  the  worlds  were — so,  and  so  only,  can 
the  Divine  Reason  fulfil  its  perfect  work;  so,  and  so 
only,  can  it  penetrate,  and  achieve,  and  comprehend ; 
so,  and  so  only,  can  the  Son  know  the  Father,  even  as 
the  Father  knoweth  the  Son.  Because  the  Word  was 
ever  with  God,  therefore  He  ever  knew  God.  Because 
He  abides  constantly  in  that  faultless  love;  therefore, 
and  therefore  only,  does  the  Father  show  the  Son  what- 
soever He  doeth  :  and  no  man  knoweth  the  Father  but 
that  one  Eternal  Son. 

"The  Word  was  with  God."  Communion  with  God 
is  the  secret  of  Divine  wisdom :  out  of  the  abiding 
and  familiar  intimacy  of  the  Son  with  the  Father 
flows  the  wealth  of  the  Word's  high  knowledge.  He 
knows,  because  He  abides  in  the  bosom  of  the  Father. 
This  is  the  law  of  intellectual  life  in  its  highest 
conceivable  expression,  in  that  Word  Who  is  the 
Thought  and  Beason  of  God  Himself :  this  law,  then, 
regulates  the  exercise  of  reason  from  end  to  end  of 
its  domain  :  in  this  lies  the  secret  of  its  force,  the 
condition  of  its  success :  and  we,  on  our  lower  level, 
we,  whose  reason  works  in  the  image  of  the  Word,  in 
Whose  light  alone  we  see  light,  can  win  our  intellectual 
way  only  through  conformity  to  the  primal  conditions 
under  which  the  Word  of  God  moves  forward  to  His 
victorious  apprehension. 

We  can  only  understand  that  in  which  we  abide, 
with  which  we  have  intimate  union,  to  which  we  are 


Logic,  and  Life. 


17 


ourselves  conformed  ;  that  which  we  handle,  and  taste, 
and  feel,  and  see.  The  closer  our  contact,  the  securer 
grows  our  knowledge ;  and  only  out  of  the  growing 
pressure  of  familiar  intercourse  can  our  reason  gain 
ever-quickening  activity,  ever -increasing  assurance. 
Thought  is  our  power  of  allying  oiTselves  to  facts, 
our  power  of  acquiring  consistency  with  them,  so  that 
the  world  within  corresponds  with  the  world  without. 
It  therefore  shifts  and  changes  its  fashions  and  forms, 
its  features  and  expression,  according  to  the  nature  of 
the  facts  before  it,  according  to  the  shaping  of  the 
world  with  which  it  deals.  Its  instinctive  sympathies, 
its  sense  of  security,  its  touches  of  persuasion,  its 
effective  pressure,  all  vary  infinitely  according  to  the 
character  of  its  abiding  habits,  according  to  the  range  of 
its  experiences. 

This,  then,  it  is  which  throws  such  awful  reality  into 
our  intellectual  responsibilities  ;  this  it  is  which  makes 
its  difficulties  so  anxious,  so  deep,  so  intense.  We 
cannot  estimate  the  judgments  of  reason  from  outside : 
we  have  no  machine  that  will  test  and  weigh  them  oft- 
hand  ;  we  can  never  have  one  glimpse  of  their  efficacy 
or  their  reality  without  entering  ourselves  within  the 
circle  of  their  proper  fascination,  without  passing  in 
within  the  range  of  the  experiences  of  which  it  is  their 
sole  claim  to  be  the  supreme  interpretation.  How 
different,  now,  becomes  the  aspect  of  such  arguments  as 
those  on  which  we  have  already  touched  ! — such  argu- 
ments as  protested  that  every  step  of  advanced  familiarity 
with  the  methods  of  Historical  Criticism,  or  with  the 
presentations  of  Natural  Scieuce,  made  it  seem  harder 

B 


iS 


Logic,  and  Life. 


to  conceive  the  possibility  of  miracle  or  the  ration- 
ality of  prayer.  Perfectly  true  !  but  what  else  would 
you  expect  ?  For  what  intimacy,  what  sympathy  have 
these  empirical  sciences  with  those  facts  in  relation  to 
which  alone  prayer  and  miracle  become  conceivable  ? 
Such  sciences  classify  and  interpret  our  Past ;  but  they 
have  nothing  to  do  with  that  tremendous  world  from 
which  we  win  nerve  and  force  to  break  with  our  Past, 
to  throw  off  its  hold,  to  shatter  its  fetters.  Such 
powers  as  this  they  never  profess  to  interpret;  they 
abandon  any  claim  to  conti-ol  or  examine.  With  all  that 
has  been  they  can  deal ;  but  all  that  may  be,  all  that 
ought  to  be — all  the  wide  sea  of  possibilities  that  have 
never  yet  been — these  they  abandon  to  the  unknown. 
And  yet,  are  there  no  such  possibilities  to  be  seen  or 
found  in  our  lives'?  Is  the  influence  of  the  Past  the 
sole  factor  of  importance  in  the  shaping  of  our  days  ? ' 
Have  the  possibilities  of  the  Future  no  present  and 
actual  force  within  our  souls  to-day  ?  Is  there  no 
world  of  spiritual  fact  ever  grouping  itself  round  about 
these  possibilities  that  are  alive  and  at  work  within 
us  ?  Do  we  never  feel  or  know  the  live  and  sensible 
energies  of  hopes,  aspirations,  ideals,  regrets,  remorse, 
repentance,  absolutions,  renewals  ?  Are  conversions, 
couvulsions,  spontaneities,  resistances,  revolts,  revolu- 
tions, awakenings, — are  such  movements  as  these 
within  the  profound  recesses  of  the  soul  all  unreal,  all 
fanciful,  all  unregarded  ?  Nay,  surely  these  are  our 
realities,  these  are  the  master-light  of  all  our  seeing ; 
and  it  is  in  face  of  realities  such  as  these  that  Prayer  and 
Miracles,  which  are  the  witnesses  of  a  power  to  change 
the  Present  and  transform  the  Past,  assume  intelligible 


Logic,  and  Life. 


19 


validity.  Often  and  ofteu  we  have,  surely,  all  of  us 
found  it  so.  It  is  after  lon^  and  habitual  neglect  of 
the  miraculous  and  spiritual  elements  that  enter  into 
the  texture  of  our  own  existence  that  we  find  the 
formulas  of  faith  so  perplexing,  so  irrational,  so  alien,  so 
repellent.  Only  by  constant  and  customary  contact 
with  those  strange  invisible  powers  that  underlie  our 
own  sensible  life,  and  move  it  so  deeply,  and  enforce 
such  superhuman  demands, — only  by  abiding  within  the 
presence  of  these  imperious  mysteries,  sensitive  to  their 
touch,  responsive  to  their  appeals,  unstartled  by  their 
thrilling  messages, — only  so  can  the  mind  learn  to 
admit  within  the  lines  of  its  possible  experiences  facts 
that  claim  to  be  miraculous.  For  only  to  such  can 
miracle  be  welcome  as  a  congenial  ally,  an  expected 
and  warranted  guest  whom  they  greet  with  ready  ease ; 
and  this  ease  of  entry,  this  congenial  welcome,  it  is 
which  constitutes  rationality.  Reason,  whose  whole 
aim  it  is  to  give  unity  and  harmony  to  the  whole  round 
of  life's  experiences,  is  satisfied  as  long  as  her  expecta- 
tions feel  no  shock,  as  her  harmony  is  unbroken ;  and 
no  such  break,  no  such  shock,  disturbs  or  discomforts 
her,  if  the  miracle  without  finds  an  effective  response 
in  the  daily  miracle  within.  Its  entry  stirs  no  tumul- 
tuous repulsion  in  a  world  where  its  appearance  is  so 
familiar,  and  its  advent  so  long  looked  for. 

Deep  down,  then,  in  the  dim  recesses  of  each  man's 
soul  lie  the  secret  springs  of  his  logical  thinking.  His 
thought  belongs  to  the  very  essence  of  his  being,  and 
with  the  innermost  life  of  that  being  it,  too,  lives.  Its 
exercise  and  use  are  inseparable  from  his  mental  habits 
and  spiritual  history;  it  works  under  the  thousand 


20 


Logic,  and  Life. 


influences  of  custom,  of  intercourse,  of  familiarity  ;  and, 
if  so,  God  Himself  can  only  seem  a  rational  solution  to 
those  who  live  in  constant  contact  with  the  problems 
which  His  existence  solves.  The  Incarnation  can 
never  be  rational  to  any  but  those  who  know  now  what 
it  is  to  have  the  Word  of  God  alive  and  speaking 
within  their  souls.  The  Atonement  can  only  appear 
rational  to  such  as  have  sounded,  in  their  own  experi- 
ence, the  awful  waters  of  remorse,  or  have  been  eaten 
by  the  devouring  agonies  of  corruption,  or  have  felt  the 
horror  of  that  gross  darkness  which  settles  down  as  a 
soundless  night,  without  star  or  lamp,  without  any 
movement  of  hope,  or  joy,  or  love,  upon  those  who  find 
themselves,  to  their  miserable  dismay,  to  be  sold  unto  sin. 

Have  we  then  known  anything  of  this  terrible  drama  ? 
Have  we  wrestled  and  striven  in  this  tremendous  war  ? 
Have  we  moved  about  among  these  wonderful  and  sur- 
passing powers  that  are  alive  within  our  life  ?  Have 
we  unlocked  and  entered  these  dark  chambers  ?  Have 
we  groped  with  patient  hands  along  the  length  of  their 
dim  walls  ?  And  if  not,  who  are  we,  that  we  should  be 
giving  rapid  and  daring  decisions  about  questions  which, 
without  this,  cannot  possibly  to  us  have  the  slightest 
intelligible  meaning  ?  The  time  has  come,  it  is  true,  for 
answers  to  be  given  to  questions  that  press  for  solution 
in  the  realm  of  the  supernatural ;  but  no  answer  what- 
ever will  be  possible  to  any  but  to  those  who  have  aided 
and  trained  their  reason  for  the  task  by  long  habit  and 
continual  trial,  by  persistent  watchfulness  and  intimate 
experience,  by  sober  attention  and  practised  handling, 
and  the  instincts  that  follow  on  patient  experiment. 


SERMON  IT. 


THE  VENTURE  OF  REASON". 

'"  Cljroitgfj  faittj,  foe  unocrstantJ  trjat  trie  morlDs  Sucre  frames  bg  tije 
£53aro  of  CKoo."— Heb.  xi.  3. 

As  we  look  back  and  sift  the  conditions  under  which  the 
childhood  of  the  human  race  has  made  its  advances 
into  manhood,  we  habitually  notice  a  double-sided 
character.  First,  we  are  met  at  the  start  by  a  whole 
world  of  emotion — impressions,  feelings,  affections,  im- 
pulses ;  these  move,  and  change,  and  shake,  and  com- 
pel the  whole  man.  He  is  their  creature ;  from  them  he 
derives  all  impetus ;  under  their  sway  he  is  pushed 
along  the  pathways  of  life.  His  words,  the  lonely  relics 
of  an  unrecorded  story,  are  stamped  with  the  super- 
scription of  this  sensual  dominion  :  they  keep  down  on 
the  low  levels  of  physical  imagery :  they  seem  hardly 
more  than  the  spontaneous  and  unthinking  outcome  of 
fleshly  instincts.  His  whole  being  is  cramped  and  con- 
fined in  all  its  movements  under  the  tight  pressure  of 
the  physical  network  within  which  he  lies  meshed  :  the 
stress  of  physical  needs,  of  physical  passions,  impels  all 
his  activities,  and  lends  motive  to  all  his  desires.  So 
we  see  him  start ;  and  yet  out  of  that  chaos  of  impulses, 
out  of  those  blind  motives  of  sense,  a  strange  order 
mysteriously  springs — a  new  life  emerges,  as  a  rainbow 


The  Venture  of  Reason. 


hovers,  fresh  and  free,  over  the  edges  of  the  flying  mist ; 
and  this  new  life  does  not  pass  and  die  with  the  mist 
out  of  which  its  beauty  grew  ;  it  steadies  itself  down  ; 
it  wins  for  itself,  by  slow  and  patient  degrees,  a  solid 
settlement,  a  positive  endurance :  it  orders  all  its  ways, 
it  sorts  and  places  its  materials :  it  fashions  its  cham- 
bers, and  lays  down  its  laws :  it  discloses  increasing 
capacities  of  self-control :  it  adapts  itself  to  novel 
arrangements  :  it  extends  the  sway  of  its  inventions  :  it 
discovers  principle,  and  rule,  and  regularity  there  where 
all  had  been  confusion.  Under  all  the  shocks  of  chang- 
ing impressions,  it  presses  forward  its  old  and  steady 
laws  of  combination,  it  builds  up  its  unshaken  walls. 
So,  out  of  the  tumult  of  passion,  grows  and  develops 
the  mysterious  fabric  of  social  order ;  and  the  greatest 
surprise  is  this,  that  all  this  process,  as  we  read  out  its 
history,  gives  a  reasonable  explanation  of  itself.  It  is 
open  to  scientific  exhibition ;  it  commends  itself  to 
thought ;  and,  by  so  commending  itself,  proves  itself  to 
have  been  fashioned  under  the  control  and  direction  of 
reason.  For  to  be  susceptible  of  historical  treatment  it 
must  be  rationally  constituted  ;  and  if  so,  then  we  have 
lu  conclude  that  reason  must  have  been  at  work  from 
the  first :  a  rational  order  cannot  have  been  motived  by 
irrational  impulses.  The  passions,  then  the  impressions, 
with  which  we  began  were  never  wholly  what  they 
seemed  ;  they  were  from  the  very  beginning  the  passions, 
the  impressions,  of  a  rational  man,  and  so  won  for  them- 
selves a  capacity  which  never  lay  in  the  correspondent 
affections  of  the  animal.  This  capacity  was  not  given 
then,  from  outside,  was  not  imposed  ;  for  the  closer  we 


The  Venture  of  Reason. 


23 


probe  history,  the  more  obviously  and  undeniably  do  we 
find  that  this  masterful  supremacy  in  the  ordering  and 
making  of  life  lies  within  the  passions  themselves.  It  is 
the  instincts  themselves  that  push  nations  into  these 
novel  social  arrangements ;  it  is  the  instinctive  pressure 
of  impulse  that  actually  works  the  change.  Affections, 
feelings,  emotions,  are  the  real  and  living  agents  who 
make  history  what  it  is ;  conscious  and  critical  reason 
plays  in  the  drama  but  a  subordinate  part.  And  yet 
the  result  is  rational.  It  is  not  that  irrational  forces  are 
made  use  of  by  reason  to  produce  rational  results,  but 
the  wonder  is  that  these  rational  results  issue  out  of  the 
action  of  these  very  forces  which  appear  so  irrational. 
These  forces,  then,  if  they  are  the  factors  of  society, 
of  civilisation,  must  hold  within  themselves  the  secret 
of  the  issue ;  they  cannot  be  empty  of  that  reason,  the 
existence  of  which  their  whole  activity  proves  and 
exhibits.  The  passions  of  a  man  are  themselves  in- 
telligent ;  they  move  under  the  motives  of  reason. 

So  we  conclude  from  history,  and  so  we  find  in 
ourselves.  We  each  individually  reveal  a  character 
built  up  out  of  feelings  which,  at  first  sight,  we  clos-s 
with  the  instincts  of  the  animal,  or  attribute  to  the  blind 
influences  of  fleshly  impressions.  And  yet,  after  all,  it 
is  out  of  these  that  our  rational  character  emerges  ;  it 
is  out  of  these  feelings  that  we  elaborate  a  history 
which  is  perpetually  advancing  its  problems,  its  needs, 
its  solutions,  its  satisfactions ;  it  is  in  these  very 
feelings  that  we  make  manifest  to  all  who  have  eyes  to 
see,  or  ears  to  listen,  the  tokens  of  an  enduring  self, 
whose  actions  men  can  count  upon  and  calculate,  whose 


24 


The  Venture  of  Reason. 


movements  they  can  classify  and  connect,  whose  growth 
they  can  confidently  anticipate.  And  still  deeper  down 
in  our  self-study,  we  discover  strange  effects  in  those 
impulses  which  at  first  we  called  animal.  They  are 
not  content  to  lie  back  behind  the  narrow  barriers 
within  which  the  simple  passions  of  that  dim  animal 
world  run  their  unchanging  round.  They  break  through 
that  ancient  monotony ;  they  take  to  themselves  larger 
powers ;  they  feel  their  way  towards  new  possibilities ; 
they  increase  the  force  and  extend  the  range  of 
their  desires.  The  passions,  in  becoming  human,  are  no 
longer  animal.  It  is  not  that  they  are  differently 
managed  and  treated  ;  it  is  that  they  themselves  are 
changed ;  they  themselves  desire  what  no  animal 
desires  ;  they  themselves  exceed,  as  no  animal  exceeds ; 
they  themselves  disclose  in  their  very  excess  a  secret 
instinct  of  self-discipline,  in  which  lies  the  seed  of  the 
new  law,  the  law  of  Purity  and  Holiness.  The  appetite 
that  is  capable  of  self-assertion  is  driven  by  its  own 
inner  necessities  to  the  task  of  self-control.  Morality, 
as  we  look  at  it  closely  and  carefully,  is  no  system 
imposed  on  passion  from  without ;  it  is  itself  the  very 
heart  of  all  desire,  the  very  principle  of  all  human 
impulse,  the  very  inspiration  of  all  passion.  Out  of  the 
growth  and  increase  of  these  vaster  passions,  righteous- 
ness springs  like  a  flower  to  perfect,  like  a  revelation 
to  interpret,  all  that  without  its  manifestation  is  left 
unfulfilled  and  unexplained.  And  if  so,  then  these 
passions,  these  impulses,  cannot  be  altogether  blind 
and  unpurposing.  They  have  it  in  them  to  produce  a 
rational  order  ;  they  hold,  hidden  within  their  extrava- 


The  Venture  of  Reason.  25 


gance,  the  mystery  of  control ;  they  inevitably  tend  to- 
wards temperance  and  chastity.  They  are,  then,  already 
rational ;  they  are,  from  the  very  start,  already  moral 

All  history,  then,  whether  of  ourselves  or  of  nations 
stands  as  a  witness  to  the  rational  and  moral  neces' 
sities  that  underlie,  and  stir,  and  move,  and  invigorate, 
and  propel  the  passionate   instincts   of  our  living 
humanity.     Reason  does  not  watch  and  rule  from 
above,  merely  looking  out  from  its  high  castle  windows 
upon  the  surging  and  unruly  mob  that  sweeps  up  and 
down  the  passages  of  the  loud,  unsteady  city.  It 
descends  disguised  often  under  some  dark-hooded  cloak 
and  mixes  in  with  the  loose  and  free  tumult  of  the' 
crowds;  it  lends  its  far-reaching  skill  to  their  uses  ■ 
it  sends  up  its  voice  into  their  cries;  it  lets  them  see' 
through  its  eyes,  the  larger  horizon  ;  it  feeds,  with  its' 
strength,  their  daring  aspirations.    The  world  of  human 
passion  feels,  from  end  to  end,  the  quiekening  move- 
ments of  this  infused  and  invigorating  power. 
So  much  it  seems  almost  imperative  to  conclude 
But  this  recognition,  so  full  of  force,  so  rich  with 
light,  leads  us  inevitably  to  expect  the  truth  of  its 
counter  proposition. 

If  man,  as  it  appears,  is  no  animal  with  reason 
attached,  but  rather  is  so  entirely  and  perfectly  one 
that  that  which  was  most  allied  to  the  animal  loses  its 
sheer  animality  by  contact  with  the  new  gift  of  thou-ht 
-nd  itself  is  affected  all  through  by  a  strange,  trans-' 
iorming  force,  and  becomes  itself  an  advancing  instead 
of  a  stationary  kingdom,  and  exhibits  novel  effects  and 
wins  unlooked-for  range-if  impulse  is  so  changed  by 


26 


The  Venture  of  Reason. 


being  advanced  from  association  with  instinct  to  associa- 
tion with  that  which,  at  least,  is  so  different  from  instinct 
that  we  call  it  reason ;  then  will  it  not  also,  be  most 
likely  that  reason,  too,  will  be  no  entirely  separable 
thing,  isolated,  removed  from  all  direct  hold  on  that 
which  it  so  directly  inspires  ?  If  the  passions  dis- 
played in  human  action  be  indivisibly  penetrated  by 
reason,  will  man's  reason  so  energize  as  to  exclude  the 
inter-action  of  passion  ?  Will  it  not — does  it  not 
exhibit,  throughout  all  its  activity,  the  intimacy  of  its 
inner  communion  with  those  passions  in  which  it  so 
vigorously  acts  ?  If  impulses  are  rational,  is  not 
reason  impulsive  ?  If  feeling  be  instinct  with  reason, 
is  not  reason  instinct  with  feeling  ?  If  the  one  is  so 
sensitive  to  its  contact  with  the  other,  will  the  latter 
remain  untouched  by  the  same  undivided  contact  ?  We 
may  with  ease  distinguish  the  two,  and  the  distinction 
we  draw  may  be  genuine  and  real :  but  yet,  for  all  that, 
it  need  not  be  final ;  and  indeed  it  cannot  be  final,  if 
the  man  in  whom  both  distinctions  meet  is  himself 
indivisibly  and  inseparably  one.  He,  the  man,  lives 
with  the  same  self  within  either  half  of  his  life  :  he, 
the  man,  is  as  passionate  as  he  is  rational,  and  as  rational 
as  he  is  passionate :  he  recognises  himself  as  readily,  as 
entirely,  on  the  one  side  as  on  the  other  of  our  dis- 
tinction :  in  both  he  equally  lives,  moves,  and  acts,  and 
with  neither  can  he  peculiarly  or  exclusively  identify 
himself :  in  and  out  of  both  chambers  he  passes  freely ; 
in  both,  he  knows  himself  at  home;  the  passions  are  his 
and  his  only,  such  as  none  but  he  could  have  and  feel. 
The  reason  is  his,  and  his  only,  such  as  none  but  only 


The  Venture  of  Reason. 


27 


he  could  accept,  or  use,  or  understand;  from  him 
botli  feelings  and  thoughts  derive  all  their  reality,  all 
their  character ;  divorced  from  him,  they  would  he, 
both  of  them,  shadowy  and  unintelligible.  Bonded 
together  in  his  indissoluble  personality,  they  move 
together  when  they  move  at  all ;  they  are  penetrable  by 
each  other's  influences,  they  are  touched  by  each  other's 
infirmities,  they  respond  to  each  other's  invitations, 
they  move  under  the  pressure  of  mutual  motives. 
Neither,  in  the  final  resort,  would  be  explicable,  except 
by  the  interpretation  of  the  other.  No  single  feeling 
that  that  one  man  feels  could  ever  finally  be  con- 
ceivable as  a  feeling  that  might  have  occurred  to  any 
one  else.  It  is  intelligible  only  in  its  context  with  that 
one  man's  life:  it  is  an  expression  of  his  being,  of  his 
character,  of  his  thoughts,  and  of  no  one  else's,  in  all 
the  wide  world.  And  again,  no  single  thought  that 
that  same  man  thinks  can  ever  finally  set  itself  loose 
from  the  fibres  that  knit  it  up  by  infrangible  bonds  into 
that  organic  unity  which  is  the  self,  and  which  feels  as 
well  as  thinks. 

The  reason  in  man  is  human ;  that  is  all  we  mean. 
It  does  not  act  or  live  on  its  own  account  in  abstract 
isolation :  it  does  not  work  alone :  it  is  not  itself  pos- 
sessed of  substantial  and  independent  being ;  it  belongs 
not  to  itself,  but  to  another — to  a  man,  to  a  being,  that 
is,  who  is  not  only  rational,  but  also  imaginative,  im- 
pulsive, sensitive,  moral,  spiritual.  It  is  under  this 
man's  impulse  that  it  argues  and  discusses ;  it  is  part 
and  parcel  of  his  corporate  and  complex  existence.  The 
whole  long  chain  of  its  syllogisms  is  never  mechanical: 


28 


The  Venture  of  Reason. 


it  is  alive  along  all  its  length,  and  feels  at  every  joining 
the  throbbing  currents  of  his  moving  life.  It  is  against 
the  very  law  of  reason's  existence  to  separate  it  from 
all  that,  without  which  it  would  not  be  what  it  is.  In 
such  separation  its  energy  dwindles,  its  leaps  of  ad- 
vance cease,  its  bracing  courage  dies  down,  and  all  its 
potency  disappears.  We  know  not  whence  it  drew  its 
old  force ;  we  cannot  entice  it  into  its  ancient  audaci- 
ties. Its  rapid  and  intuitive  connections,  once  so  cer- 
tain, so  necessary,  so  imperious,  all  break  up  and  vanish ; 
the  thread  is  cut,  and  the  beads  are  all  scattered. 

Now,  if  so,  what  follows  ?  Does  it  follow  that,  since 
reason  derives  its  use  and  force  from  the  particular 
man  who  works  it,  all  thinking  is  therefore  purely 
individual  —  the  peculiar  property  of  each  separate 
rational  soul  ?  Does  no  one  man  think  as  any  other 
man  does  ?  The  answer  to  that  question  can  surely  be 
given  only  by  turning  to  the  results  that  follow  the 
exercise  of  each  man's  reason.  What  is  the  issue  of 
this  exercise  ?  Does  he  find  himself,  when  he  thinks,  out 
of  all  accord  with  what  other  men  are  thinking  ?  Are 
none  of  his  arguments  theirs  ?  Are  their  conclusions 
never  his  ?  Amid  all  the  intense  variety  of  individual 
character  which  enters  into  the  play  of  thought,  are 
there  no  large  and  decisive  unities  that  display  them- 
selves ?  Are  there  none  that  continually  advance,  and 
grow,  and  gain  power,  and  enlarge  their  testimony,  and 
establish  confidence  ?  Do  men  find  that  there  follows, 
on  the  use  of  their  reason,  a  sense  of  bitter  loneliness, 
of  horrible  isolation  ?  Do  they,  the  more  they  think, 
hold  ever  more  aloof  from  their  fellows  ?    Do  they  find 


The  Venture  of  Reason. 


29 


themselves  thrown  hack,  shocked,  jostled,  when  they 
utter  their  minds  ?  Are  they,  when  they  try  to  argue 
or  discuss,  ever  running  their  heads  against  hard  walls  ? 
Or  is  it  not  exactly  the  contrary  ?  Is  it  not  in  ignorance 
of  each  other's  minds  that  men  meet  with  rude  rejections, 
and  hatter  vainly  against  blind  barriers  ?  Is  not  the 
exercise  of  thought  one  long  and  delightful  discovery 
of  the  identity  that  knits  us  up  into  the  main  body  of 
mankind  ?  If  ever  we  do  succeed  in  putting  our 
thoughts  into  words  that  others  understand,  is  it  not  a 
sure  road  to  their  hearts  ?  Do  they  not  run  to  greet 
us  with  open  arms  ?  Our  sympathies,  our  hopes,  our 
desires,  do  we  not,  when  once  we  can  find  a  language  to 
express  what  they  are  to  us,  re-discover  them  all  in  the 
souls  of  uui'  fellows  ?  Is  not  all  language  one  enduring 
and  irresistible  witness  to  the  reality  and  depth  of  the 
communion  which  our  thought  arrives  at,  as  soon  as  man 
touches  man  ?  And  each  new  tongue  or  dialect  brings 
with  it  new  and  delicious  proof.  There,  in  its  forms, 
and  assumptions,  and  ideals,  and  bonds,  we  read  out 
what  we  within  ourselves  know  and  understand.  It  is 
our  own  mind  that  rises  up  reflected  in  this  mirror. 
We  enter  into  its  most  intricate  ways  with  ready 
delight.  Even  its  most  surprising  turns  become  intel- 
ligible as  we  watch  them.  Something  in  us  wakes  up 
from  long  slumber  at  the  kiss  of  this  strange  arrival ; 
something  in  us  responds  and  welcomes  and  admits. 

And  history,  again,  at  first  so  startling,  so  odd,  so 
repellent,  yet  only  requires  study  to  open  its  secrets. 
The  more  we  throw  the  light  of  careful  thought  upon 
its  records,  the  more  intelligible  it  becomes.    We  find 


3Q 


The  Venture  of  Reason. 


ourselves  no  longer  repelled.  Our  minds  mix  freely 
with  the  old  fancies  and  doings.  Here,  too,  Ave  have 
only  to  watch,  and  some  familiar  things  emerge.  The 
confused  babble  steadies  its  voice  into  the  harmonies  of 
a  music  that  we  feel  and  enjoy.  The  sense  of  nearness 
and  of  intimacy  grows  stronger  and  firmer,  and  over  all 
there  comes  a  look  of  friendliness  and  a  touch  of  kindly 
kinship.  And,  indeed,  what  is  it  that  we  intend  to  express 
by  that  hard  word  "  civilisation,"  that  word  which  re- 
minds us  of  such  thronging  miseries,  and  yet  cheers  us 
always  with  a  sense  of  inexhaustible  promise,  if  it  is  not 
this — that,  in  spite  of  all  encumbering  sorrows  thatburden 
and  trouble  our  way,  in  spite  of  the  wide  and  desolating 
cruelties  that  haunt  and  disfigure  our  advance,  it  is  yet 
worth  all  the  pain  to  know,  with  increasing  recognition, 
that  large  fellowship  of  mind,  and  heart,  and  will,  which 
is  for  ever  disclosing  its  untold  resources,  its  unnumbered 
delights,  to  those  who  dare  to  believe  that  "  God  hath 
made  man  to  be  of  one  blood  over  all  the  face  of  the 
earth"?  Men  are  indeed  of  one  heart  and  one  mind, 
and  might  have  all  things,  if  they  would,  in  common. 
This  is  the  promise.  And  civilisation  is  the  secured 
discovery  that  this  good  news  is  true.  It  is  the  growing 
acknowledgment  how  joyful  and  pleasant  a  thing  it  is 
for  brethren  to  dwell  together  in  unity. 

Reason,  then,  though  exercised  under  the  inspiration 
of  each  varying  and  separate  character,  does  yet  testify, 
by  the  social  community  in  which  its  working  inevitably 
issues,  that  it  is  no  isolated  or  isolating  agency;  that  its 
activities  work  in  the  mass,  and  signalize  an  irresistible 
unity  of  law,  and  life,  and  movement.    But  if  so,  it 


The  Venture  of  Reason. 


3i 


follows  from  what  has  been  said  that  this  unity  must 
be  looked  for,  not  in  the  mere  mechanism  of  reason — 
for  reason  is  no  mechanical  instrument  that  any  one 
who  uses,  inevitably  uses  in  one  way :  reason,  we  say, 
is  instinct  with  personal  life  throughout  all  its  uses. 
And  if  it  testifies  to  unity,  then  that  unity  must 
be  looked  for  behind  the  formal  rules  and  regulated 
motions  of  that  abstraction  which  we  call  reason ;  it 
must  be  discoverable  in  the  very  heart-life  of  the  per- 
sonal character  out  of  whose  energy  reason  proceeds. 
There,  far  back  in  the  deep  recesses  of  our  innermost 
being,  in  that  last  home  of  self-existence,  even  there, 
it  would  seem,  we  discover  no  separate,  no  lonely  life  ; 
even  there  penetrates  and  prevails  the  sway  of  common 
movement,  the  strong  influences  that  knit,  and  bind,  and 
gather  together.  Unity  is  no  accident  made  possible, 
to  individuals  essentially  different,  by  the  incidental 
exercise  ot  a  common  reasoning  faculty.  Rather  the  use 
of  the  faculty  gives  steadfast  proof  that  the  individuals 
in  whom  it  so  essentially  inheres  are  not  divided  and 
distinct,  but  are  pervaded  and  possessed  by  ineffaceable 
unities,  by  ineradicable  identities,  which  testify  to  their 
power  and  presence  by  every  word  that  is  spoken,  by 
every  deed  that  is  done.  It  is  we  ourselves  who  are 
discovered  in  the  common,  the  universal  necessities  of 
thought ;  it  is  we  ourselves,  and  not  merely  our  "  laws  of 
thought,"  who  are  then  discovered  to  be  at  one  with  our 
fellow-men,  to  be  bound  up  with  them  into  a  union  so 
radical  that  we  call  it  "  necessary,"  so  irrevocable  that 
we  call  it  "  absolute."  It  is  our  very  self  that  cannot 
act  without   revealing   within   itself  those  essential 


32 


The  Ventiire  of  Reason. 


assumptions  which  all  men  instinctively  adopt,  and 
none  can  finally  avoid. 

To  return,  then,  reassured,  to  our  first  point.  At  the 
roots  of  all  reasoning  lies  the  personal,  the  individual 
man  :  it  is  he  from  out  of  whom  the  reasoning  issues  : 
it  is  his  living  personality  which  endows  it  with  motion, 
and  being,  and  act.  No  wonder,  then,  if  all  reasoning 
starts  with  some  primary  assumptions  :  they  are  inevit- 
able, since  reason  itself,  the  faculty  of  thought,  has  no 
independent  existence  of  its  own,  but  assumes  always, 
behind  it  and  in  it,  a  living  person,  from  whom  it  derives 
its  existence,  by  whom  it  is  set  in  action,  in  whom  it 
finds  its  home,  in  whose  energy  it  works,  in  whose 
service  it  is  alive.  Here,  then,  is  reason's  assumption. 
It  is  not  complete  in  itself ;  it  assumes  a  life  which  is 
not  thought  nor  feeling,  but  is  a  single  man,  who  both 
thinks  and  feels  at  once ;  who  never  altogether  ceases 
either  to  think  all  the  time  that  he  is  feeling,  or  to  feel 
all  the  time  that  he  thinks.  Without  such  assumption, 
reason  cannot  begin :  without  it,  it  has  no  intelligible 
force,  no  valid  security,  no  confidence  in  itself.  It  can- 
not find  reasons  to  justify  its  root-princip]es.  No  ;  how 
should  it  ?  Its  roots  are  imbedded  in  the  man  from 
whom  it  wins  its  life,  and  draws  its  succours  and 
supplies.  "  In  his  existence  lies  its  sole  justification  :  in 
the  light  of  his  character  alone  can  its  working  be  seen 
and  unders^od :  to  him  all  its  quick  motions,  all  its 
rapid  transitions,  are  intelligible,  are  logical,  are  irresis- 
tible, are  necessary,  for  they  are  himself. 

And,  if  it  appears  that  these  primary  principles,  which 
all  reasoning  assumes  are  not  private  and  peculiar,  but 


The  Venttire  of  Reason. 


33 


large,  common,  universal,  then  we  are  driven,  not  to 
drop  our  first  conclusion,  but  to  believe  a  second ;  to 
believe  that  each  single  human  being,  who  is  himself 
the  ground  and  justification  of  all  the  reasoning  that 
he  puts  in  action,  testifies  as  he  reasons  to  that  binding 
fellowship  which  enters  into,  and  penetrates,  and 
possesses  all  his  inward  personal  life — testifies  to  the 
intense  and  over-mastering  reality  of  that  common 
blood  and  brotherhood  which  encompasses  and  embraces 
all  mankind,  sealing  on  each  soul  its  irrevocable  stamp, 
animating  each  with  its  exhaustless  breath,  fashioning 
each  to  the  liking  of  its  dominant  and  imperial  will. 

Reason  begins,  then,  with  an  assumption,  an  assump- 
tion that  abides  with  it  from  the  beginning  to  the  end 
of  its  unceasing  process ;  an  assumption  that  all  its 
action  continually  asserts,  and  continually  verifies.  It 
assumes  the  life  by  which  it  lives,  the  personality  which 
it  unwaveringly  expresses.  Without  this  assumption 
it  cannot  start,  and  that  first  assumption  it  never 
abandons :  all  its  after-success,  all  its  advances,  are  but  a 
continuous  disclosure  of  the  full  significance  which  that 
initial  act  included  and  involved. 

Slowly  man  discovers  the  rich  wealth  of  meaning  with 
which  an  enlarged  experience  abundantly  fills  the  simple 
and  naked  assumption,  which  his  own  free  action  con- 
stituted at  the  first  to  be  the  rule  and  scheme  of  all  his 
thinking.  Every  touch,  every  sight,  every  sound,  bring 
in  to  him  their  delightful  confirmation,  and  ratify,  with 
unfaltering  faithftilness,  those  earliest  movements  in 
which  his  intelligence  first  asserted  itself,  that  primary 
act  of  courageous  anticipation,  which  leapt  out  from 

c 


34 


The  Venture  of  Reason. 


the  dark  silence  of  his  spirit  at  the  first  moment  in 
which  he  felt  the  greeting  of  a  world  outside  himself. 
In  that  initiating  act  he  has  anticipated  the  whole 
round  of  knowledge ;  every  motion  forward  is  but  a  new 
discovery  of  the  marvels  that  lay  hidden  in  that  bold 
claim  with  which  he  demanded  the  submission  of  all 
experiences  to  the  conditions  which  he,  without  warrant, 
seemingly,  and  without  a  prospect  of  proof,  asserted  his 
right  to  impose  upon  them.  The  right  was  asserted 
without  its  proofs ;  the  claim  was,  indeed,  made  without 
sanction  or  warrant.  Who  could  say  that  man  had  the 
right  to  believe  himself  in  possession  of  the  power  to 
know  and  grasp  the  real  principles  of  things  ?  But  he 
had  the  courage  to  enforce  his  claim,  to  anticipate  his 
warrants,  and,  ever  since  that  daring  self-assertion, 
the  proofs  have  been  pouring  in  with  overwhelming 
abundance  to  justify  and  sustain  it. 

In  what,  then,  does  reason  begin  ?  How  should  we 
describe  the  act  from  which  it  issues  ? 

It  is  an  act,  a  movement,  by  which  the  inner  man, 
that  soul  and  substance  of  all  the  thoughts  and  all  the 
feelings  that  express  him,  steps  forward,  at  the  touch 
of  an  outward  world,  and  asserts  his  kinship,  his  alliance, 
his  union,  his  communion,  with  that  which  has  advanced 
to  meet  him  from  without.  He  recognises  it,  he  welcomes 
it,  he  runs  out,  to  fall,  as  it  were,  into  the  ready  embraces 
of  a  brother :  he  lets  himself  go  in  confidence  and 
security,  as  a  bird  that  drops  from  branch  or  tower 
upon  the  large  and  steady  spaces  of  the  enfolding  ah' : 
he  letfps  with  a  free  spirit  into  these  moving  waters  of 
encircling  life,  and,  lo !  as  with  hands  they  receive  him, 


The  Venture  of  Reason. 


35 


as  with  arms  they  uplift  him,  and  in  the  hollows  of  their 
deep  hosom  he  finds  himself  carried,  and  at  peace. 

Now,  what  word  have  we  by  which  to  describe  an  act 
at  once  so  presumptuous  and  yet  so  trustful ;  what  word, 
if  it  be  not  the  word  "  Faith  "  ? 

Faith  is  just  such  a  movement  forward  of  the  entire 
being,  under  the  compelling  impulse  of  its  own  inward 
daring,  to  greet  the  advent  of  a  novel  visitant,  who  is  at 
once  strange,  and  yet  instinctively  familiar.  Faith  is  that 
act  of  prophetic  anticipation  which  risks  everything  on 
a  venture,  which  nothing  but  the  results  can  ever  justify. 
Faith  is  that  which  lies  shut  up  and  asleep  until  the 
wakening  touch  of  this  incoming  guest  approaches,  and 
stirs,  and  arouses ;  and  then,  at  the  first  moment  of  the 
contact,  does  not  so  much  think,  or  feel,  as  will  that 
a  future  for  itself  should  spring  out  of  that  momentary 
union.  It  wills  in  the  power  of  some  instinctive  sym- 
pathy; it  wills  to  trust  itself  to  the  fascination  that 
draws  it  forward  ;  it  wills  to  rely  upon  the  kinship  that 
it  assumes ;  it  wills  itself  to  be  one  with  the  arriving 
life.  At  the  back  of  all  the  impressions  of  feeling,  at 
the  back  of  all  the  spontaneities  of  thought,  lies  the  deep 
strength  of  energetic  self-assertion  which  men  call  will ; 
a  self-assertion  that  presumes  so  far,  not  out  of  the  blind- 
ness of  pride,  but  out  of  the  brave  freedom  of  a  child- 
like trust.  It  pushes  out,  it  presses  forward,  it  puts 
forth  its  force,  because  it  is  so  true  to  the  calls  that 
summon  it  into  action,  because  its  innocent  simplicity 
relies  so  readily  on  the  genuineness  and  reality  of  all 
that  it  encounters.  Such  energy  flows  out  into  ills 
wishes,  that  it  seems  to  compel  their  realisation;  so 


36 


The  Venltire  of  Reason. 


actively  does  it  desire  to  know,  that  it  seems  to  enforce 
things  to  conform  to  the  conditions  of  its  knowledge : 
they  bend  to  the  sway  of  its  strong  and  effectual  desires ; 
it  imposes  upon  them,  as  we  say,  its  categories ;  and  yet 
this  imposition  is,  after  all,  nothing  but  its  own  natural 
and  willing  conformity  to  the  conditions  of  that  outward 
existence  with  which  it  so  resolutely  intends  to  unite 
itself,  and  so  passionately  believes  itself  to  be  akin. 
This  is  the  paradox  of  knowledge;  and  this  strange 
combination  of  passive  submission  with  victorious 
activity  is  surely  an  exact  repetition,  on  lower  levels, 
of  the  characteristic  working  of  that  spiritual  faith 
which  we  know  better  as  it  meets  us  in  the  highest 
walks  of  life — that  faith  which  relies  so  ardently  upon 
another,  so  desperately  disbelieves  in  its  own  powers, 
that  it  itself  acquires  the  force  to  achieve  that  which  it 
asks  for  from  another,  and,  in  answer  to  its  loud  appeal 
for  help  and  deliverance,  is  told  that  its  own  inherent 
energy  has  obtained  the  good  result,  "  Thy  faith  hath 
made  thee  whole !" 

Reason,  then,  dates  its  birth  from  some  act  in  which 
it  at  once  received  from  without,  and  yet  assumed,  and 
asserted,  and  presumed,  from  within ;  some  act  in  which 
it  both  accepted  impressions  and  yet  imposed  cate- 
gories. And  such  an  act  corresponds  to  the  nature  of 
faith, — faith  which  is  at  once  receptive,  yet  assertive : 
the  extreme  of  passivity,  and  yet  the  extreme  of 
activity. 

Eeason  starts  with  an  act  which  assumes  and 
anticipates  all  that  it  afterwards  discovers,  and  faith  is 
that  in  us  which  is  prophetic.    It  antedates  its  results : 


1 he  Venture  of  Reason. 


37 


it  pronounces  all  done  from  the  moment  that  all  has 
begun :  it  seals  to  us  in  one  momentary  act  that 
which  a  long  and  complicated  process  will  afterwards 
realize  and  fulfil ;  a  process  that  could  not  begin  except 
by  assuming  its  own  possibility,  by  which  assumption 
it  is  indeed  made  possible.  By  believing  that  it  has, 
it  does  verily  receive. 

Once  more,  reason  must  begin  in  a  movement  of  the 
entire  man;  and  such  a  movement  is  faith  ;  faith  which 
carries  the  whole  being  along  in  despite  of  feelings, 
and  in  defiance  of  proof,  by  an  energetic  exertion  of 
its  living  will,  which  leaps  forward,  and  lays  hold  of, 
and  clings  close,  and  cleaves  fast  to,  an  object  to 
which  it  becomes,  by  the  very  force  of  that  vivifying 
impulse,  assimilated,  and  united,  and  akin.  That  prime 
movement  forward  to  salute  the  approach  of  a  message 
from  elsewhere,  that  first  grip  on  the  incoming  life  that 
meets  it  from  outside,  is  an  inspiration  of  the  will 
preceding  reason;  yet  not  for  that  irrational,  since  it 
issues  in  reason,  which  spreads  its  powers  in  perpetual 
and  enduring  witness  to  the  rational  Tightness  of  that 
act  of  trust  from  which  it  wins  all  its  sanction  and  all 
its  authenticity. 

And  can  it  be,  then,  that  even  in  the  barest  exercise 
of  reason  we  have  stepped  out  into  such  deep  waters  ? 
Is  it  indeed  true  that,  in  every  motion  of  thought,  we 
have  already  let  go  of  all  ropes  and  stakes  that  could 
give  us  a  hold  on  the  solid  and  steady  earth,  and  can 
feel  the  ground  no  longer  under  our  feet,  but  are  being 
lifted  and  borne  along  by  strange  waves,  in  which  we 
float  suspended  and  amazed  ?    Is  it  impossible  even  to 


38  77/ c  Venture  of  Reason. 


think  without  abandoning  ourselves  to  a  movement,  of 
which  we  can  have  but  doubtful  experience,  and  know 
not  at  all  the  issue  ?  Is  it  contrary  to  reason's  own 
law,  that  we  should  desire  to  secure  certainty  before 
we  dare  to  act  ?  Does  reason  itself  refuse  to  exist, 
except  to  those  who  venture  with  no  faint  heart  to 
follow  the  fascination  of  hope  ?  Is  it  impossible  to  be 
rational  without  passing  beyond  the  bounds  of  reason, 
without  surrendering  reason  itself  to  the  compulsion  of 
a  prophetic  inspiration  ?  Does  all  flunking  hang  on  an 
act  of  faith  ?  Can  it  be  true  that  we  can  never  attain 
to  intellectual  apprehension  unless  the  entire  man  in 
us  throws  his  spirit  forward,  with  a  willing  confidence, 
with  an  unfaltering  trust,  into  an  adventurous  move- 
ment ;  unless  the  entire  man  can  bring  himself  to  respond 
to  a  summons  from  without,  which  appeals  to  him  by 
some  instinctive  touch  of  strange  and  unknown  kinship 
to  rely  on  its  attraction,  to  risk  all  on  the  assumption 
of  its  reality  ? 

A  touch  of  kinship  !  Yes,  kinship  alone  could  so 
stir  faith  :  and  the  call,  therefore,  to  which  it  responds 
must  issue  from  a  Will  as  living,  as  personal,  as 
itself.  Ah  !  surely,  then,  "  God  is  in  this  place,  and 
I  knew  it  not."  From  the  first  dawn  of  our  earliest 
intelligent  activity  we  move  under  the  mighty  breath 
of  One  higher  and  lordlier  than  we  wot  of:  we  walk 
in  the  high  places,  we  are  carried  we  know  not  whither. 
Not  for  one  instant  may  we  remain  within  the  narrow 
security  of  our  private  domain ;  not  for  one  moment 
may  we  claim  to  be  self-possessed,  self-contained,  self- 
centred,  self-controlled.    Every  action  carries  us  out- 


The  Venture  of  Reason. 


39 


side  ourselves ;  every  thought  that  we  can  think  is  a 
revelation  of  powers  that  draw  us  forward,  of  influences 
that  lift  us  out  of  the  safety  of  self-control.  To  reason 
is  to  have  abandoned  the  quiet  haven  of  self-possession  ; 
for  already  in  its  first  acts  we  feel  the  big  waters  move 
under  us,  and  the  great  winds  blow.  We  live  by  trust : 
life  in  its  most  rational  and  experimental  form  is  still 
a  venture,  a  hope  which  only  justifies  itself  by  its 
success.  We  can  never  escape  the  risks  of  faith,  can 
never  hold  back  and  refuse  to  move  till  we  are  sure  of 
our  footing :  so  to  hold  back  is  never  to  begin.  Every- 
where faith  makes  its  awful  demand :  everywhere  we 
walk,  not  in  the  flesh,  not  in  ourselves,  but  in  tbe  Spirit ; 
in  all  things,  we  must  believe  that  we  have,  in  order  to 
receive.  Not  even  reason  itself  can  shirk  the  impera- 
tive call.  It,  too,  must  make  its  leap  into  the  dark. 
It,  too,  must  surrender  itself  to  the  violence  of  an 
irresistible  hope.  It  was  no  new  law  to  which  our 
Lord  finpealed  when  He  bade  His  beloved  "  Have 
faith  in  God."  His  appeal  only  called  forward  into 
new  energy  that  which  was  already  the  profoundest 
secret  of  all  our  life,  the  base  and  substance  of  our 
being.  All  our  whole  nature  stirred  and  awoke  at  the 
great  summons,  just  because  there  is  nothing  in  us 
which  does  not  know  and  obey  the  inspirations  of  faith. 
The  very  first  moment  of  our  experience  had  felt  its 
motive  and  followed  its  impulse.  "  Whither,  then,  0 
my  God,  can  I  fly  from  Thy  presence  ?  If  I  ascend 
up  to  heaven,  Thou  art  there  :  if  I  go  down  to  hell, 
Thou  art  there  also !  If  I  take  the  wings  of  the 
morning,  and  dwell  in  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  sea, 


40 


The  Venture  of  Reason. 


even  there  shall  Thy  hand  lead  me,  and  Thy  right 
hand  shall  hold  me."  Not  only  in  the  high  places  of 
Thy  revelation  do  I  find  Thy  tokens !  Not  only  at  the 
close  of  my  long  pilgrimage  do  I  throw  myself  upon 
Thy  heart,  or  fall  before  Thy  feet !  Not  only  there,  but 
from  afar  I  greet  Thee ;  from  the  lowest  levels  of  my 
rational  soul !  In  Thy  name,  even  there,  I  move 
forward !  By  faith  in  Thee,  from  the  first  hour,  I  set 
out  ■  Upon  Thee  I  did  cast  myself  when  first  my 
thought  stirred  itself  into  life  !  Thine  arms,  even  then, 
were  under  me  !  In  Thee  did  I  put  my  trust !  Oh  suffer 
not  that  earliest  faith  to  fail  until  it  carries  us  up  to 
that  nobler  faith  which  they  exercise,  who,  in  that  they 
have  believed  in  God,  believe  also  in  His  Son !  "Leave 
us  not,  neither  forsake  us,  0  Lord  God  of  our  salva- 
tion ! " 


SERMON  ITT. 


THE  SPIRIT,  AND  ITS  INTERPRETATION. 

"  SSaijat  man  Itnoforth  tije  things  of  a  man,  sabe  X\)t  spirit  of  man 
Suljidj  is  in  Jjtm  ?  £bm  so  trjt  things  of  Coo  knofaetjj  no  man,  but 
tl)E  Spirit  of  ffioo."— i  Cor.  ii.  u. 

"A  man  who  would  write  the  history  of  a  religion 
must  believe  it  no  longer,  but  must  have  believed 
it  once."  So  pronounces  the  great  French  critic ;  and 
yet,  in  what  a  dilemma  are  we  landed  by  this  incisive 
epigram !  How,  then,  are  we  to  prepare  ourselves  for 
historical  and  critical  treatment  of  religion  ?  How  can 
we  be  sure  of  securing  the  fit  conditions  ?  Can  we 
believe  experimentally  merely  for  the  purposes  of 
discovery  ?  Can  we  be  certain  of  being  able  to  cease 
from  our  belief  at  the  moment  at  which  we  propose  to 
begin  our  critical  examination  ?  Or  must  all  then  be 
left  to  happy  chance  ?  Must  the  historical  study  of 
religions  be  confined  to  those  who  have  happened  by 
good  luck  to  fall  outside  the  faiths  which  once  they 
held  ?  It  is  an  awkward  test  to  have  to  apply  to 
candidates  for  the  study.  And,  again,  are  we  to 
consider  them  fortunate  or  unfortunate  to  find  them- 
selves so  qualified  ?  Which  is  the  healthier  condition 
of  mind, — the  earlier,  or  the  later  ?  If  the  later  is  the 
more  natural  and  the  more  perfect,  how  can  the  earlier 


42 


The  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation. 


be  at  all  sound  or  entire  ?  And,  if  not  sound,  how  can 
it  be  the  essential  groundwork  of  the  critical  temper  ? 
It  can  hardly  be  that  the  later  temper  is  a  product  of 
the  earlier, — that  the  natural  evolution  of  uncritical  faith 
is  into  critical  doubt.  For  what  happens  in  the  loss 
of  the  temper  of  faith  is,  that  we  abandon  the  attempt 
to  develop  our  faith.  We  call  upon  other  and  alien 
forces  to  fructify  within  us :  we  move  under  other 
influences;  motives,  once  unfelt  or  disregarded, now  stir 
us  strongly;  the  old  powers  that  once  lifted  us  are 
withdrawn  :  we  are  in  a  different  road,  travelling  along 
a  different  line.  Once  we  tried  one  road,  now  we  are 
trying  another.  It  is  not  merely  that  we  have 
spiritualized  old  ways  of  conceiving  our  religious  aims  ; 
but  what  we  now  require  for  our  present  purpose  of 
unbiassed  criticism  is,  that  we  should  have  passed  out 
of  that  temper  which  moves  by  some  inspiration  of 
faith,  into  that  which  no  longer  knows  the  witchery  of 
such  attractions :  and  such  a  temper  cannot  be  the 
normal  product  of  the  earlier  mood ;  and,  if  not  its 
normal  product,  when  and  how  can  it  be  normal  to 
break  with  the  old  and  adopt  the  new  ?  Is  it  a  matter 
of  regret,  or  of  victory  ?  These  questions  seem  as  end- 
less, perhaps,  as  they  are  frivolous ;  and  yet  surely  it 
is  just  such  questions  as  these  which  M.  Kenan  leaves 
us  to  the  last  in  doubt  whether  he  has  ever  clearly 
faced  and  answered.  He  loves,  for  instance,  the  high 
Eoman  ideal, — the  Petrine  Legend.  You  can  read  his 
picture  of  the  early  Christian  centuries  without  dis- 
covering any  more  trace  of  the  Eastern  Church  than/ 
you  would  find  in  the  Forged  Decretals.   He  enjoys  the 


The  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation.  43 


flavour  of  this  bold  conception  ;  but  is  this  enjoyment, 
we  keep  asking  ourselves  as  we  read,  so  piquant, 
because  the  conception  is  so  unreal,  so  legendary  ?  Or, 
again,  he  bids  us  cherish  the  brave  and  beautiful 
defiance  which  the  religions  have  hurled  at  the  inevit- 
able doom  of  Death :  but  are  we  to  cherish  them 
because  the  doom  is  inevitable  ?  Does  the  bravery  of 
the  defiance,  then,  lie  in  its  hopelessness  ?  Does  the 
beauty  of  the  dream  lie  in  our  knowledge  that  it  will 
vanish  away  ?  Is  the  glory  of  a  faith,  that  glad  glory 
which  bewitches,  to  be  found  in  the  splendid  daring 
with  which  it  lies  ?  Are  we  to  regret  the  falsehood  of  1 
the  "  sweet  Galilean  Vision,"  or  to  rejoice  in  it  ? 

Such  are  the  puzzles  in  which  he  leaves  us ;  and  I 
would  ask,  is  not  this  the  paradox  which  haunts  so 
much  of  the  sympathetic  modern  criticism, — the  paradox 
which  lies  at  the  heart  of  the  delicious  joy  with  which 
we  enter  into  and  revive  the  very  charm  which  dead 
things  once  exercised ;  a  joy  whicli  has  in  it  the  pride 
of  successfully  proving  our  capacity  to  embrace  within 
the  range  of  our  sympathy  that  which  is  not  ours,  as 
well  as  the  sense  of  freedom  from  the  fearful  anxiety 
which  would  belong  to  any  passionate  belief  that  the 
charm  was  real ;  and,  moreover,  carries  with  it  also  the 
pathos  which  distils  from  all  memorials  of  buried 
delights. 

"We  are,  many  of  us,  I  think,  brought  into  a  certain 
confusion  of  mind  by  the  very  variety  of  our  emotional 
exercises.  We  idealize  the  Past  instead  of  the  Future  ; 
we  throw  ourselves  into  the  feelings  and  passions  of  a 
hundred  dead  generations.    But  such  idealization  works 


44 


The  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation. 


upon  us  with  less  practical  force  than  an  imaginary 
future ;  for  its  very  charm,  if  we  would  confess  it,  is 
often  the  laziness  with  which  we  can  afford  to  regard 
ideals  which,  fair  and  enthralling  as  once  they  were, 
have  this  additional  fascination  now,  that  their  day  is 
over,  and  they  are  perished  for  evermore.  There  they 
lie,  all  at  peace,  in  their  white  shrouds ;  sweet  visions 
that  once  drove  hearts  this  way  and  that !  How 
gracious  were  those  eyes,  now  closed  to  us  !  how  swift 
those  limbs,  now  cold  and  still !  Pleasant  it  is  to  stay 
or  watch  by  their  silent  tombs,  and  picture  their  lovely 
life,  and  dimly  feel  the  ancient  sway ;  and  yet,  for  all 
that,  know  that  we  have  not  got  to  do  and  die,  as  those 
once  did,  whom  these  visions  drew  into  pain,  and  anguish, 
and  heroic  graves !  We  seem,  as  we  revive  the  lost 
scenery,  to  be  admitted  to  enjoy  what  those  of  old  once 
saw,  and  felt,  and  followed ;  and  yet  we  have  in  the 
background  the  proud  confidence  that  we  are  free  from 
the  tyranny  of  that  bewitchment  by  which  they  were 
mastered.  We  can  see  its  limit ;  we  can  trace  out  the 
story  of  its  fall ;  we  are  not  captured  in  its  bondage,  to 
be  persuaded,  as  they  were,  that  there  was  no  vision 
that  could  fascinate  as  this,  which  maddened  them  with 
such  strong  desire.  No !  When  we  have  done  with  this 
of  theirs,  we  have  a  hundred  others  as  good,  to  which  we 
can  turn,  which  we  can  revive,  to  which  we  can  give 
ourselves,  until  we  are  tired  again  with  that,  and  ready 
to  try  the  power  of  another.  We  are  free  from  all, 
because  we  can  criticise  them  all :  but,  then,  do  we  really 
think  that  we  know  what  they  meant  to  the  men  who 
pursued  them  ?    Nay,  surely  !  for  to  them  each  of  these 


The  Spirit,  mid  its  Interpretation.  45 


fair  visions  seemed  the  one  and  only  victory  for  which 
it  was  well  worth  while  to  give  up  all  else  and  die. 
It  was  the  entire  singleness,  the  utter  supremacy  of  that 
one  vision  over  all  others,  that  gave  it  its  power,  that 
accounted  for  its  marvellous  sway  :  unless  you  see  it  in 
its  masterful,  and  energetic,  and  compelling  predomi- 
nance, you  do  not  see  it  as  they  saw  it,  nor  understand 
it  as  they  understood  it.  To  them  it  was  not  one  among 
many.  For  in  it  they  believed ;  and  to  believe,  what  is 
it  but  to  be  subdued  by  the  apparent  predominance  of 
one  aim  over  all  others  ?  And  we  are  shut  out  from 
understanding  this  subdual  which  is  belief,  so  long  as 
to  us  the  aim  is  one  which  moves  us  indeed,  but 
moves  us  only  as  many  other  ideals  move  us. 

M.  Kenan  himself  sees  further  than  this.  To  criticise 
a  religion,  to  know  it,  to  appreciate  its  history,  you  must, 
he  allows,  have  once,  genuinely  believed  it ;  you  must 
have  passed  under  the  mastery  with  which  it  swept  up 
the  whole  of  your  manhood  into  its  single  dominion  ; 
you  must  have  known  how  it  filled,  with  its  one  imperial 
impulse,  the  heavens,  and  the  earth,  and  the  sky,  and 
the  sea,  and  the  wind,  and  the  fire,  and  all  the  silent 
spaces,  the  unseen  movements,  of  those  deep  abysses 
where  God  and  the  Spirit  touch,  and  mingle,  and 
speak. 

And  yet  strongly  as  he  asserts  this  necessity,  he  still 
protests  that  all  this  must  have  ceased  before  the  critical 
understanding  can  undertake  its  proper  work :  the 
sympathetic  appreciation  of  its  object,  which  is  impera- 
tively required  in  order  that  the  criticism  may  be 
thorough  and  vital,  must  yet  be  but  that  melancholy 


46        The  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation. 


and  pathetic  tribute  which  the  living  pay  to  the 
mighty  dead. 

Can  this  be  an  intelligible  position  ?  Does  not  the 
double  demand  betray  to  the  light,  by  its  epigrammatic 
vigour,  a  confusion  which  is  continually  troubling  us, 
with  a  dark  sense  of  perplexity,  in  ways  more  subtly 
concealed  ?  For  instance,  we  travel  along  with  tbe 
general  and  obvious  theorizing  about  the  freedom  from 
preconception  which  must  signalize  the  perfect  his- 
torian, until  we  find  ourselves  slowly  and  surely  shut 
out  from  any  power  to  measure  or  gauge  the  forces  that 
build  up  history :  for  these  forces  are  passions, — the 
passionate  clinging  to  the  right ;  the  passionate  loathing 
of  wrong  ;  the  strong  pressure  of  national  cravings ;  the 
tempestuous  rush  of  young  movements  towards  new 
ideals ;  and  how  can  the  cool  indifferent  reason,  that 
cares  not  which  way  the  battle  goes,  propose  to  weigh, 
and  sift,  and  estimate  such  forces  as  these  ?  By  what 
standard  can  it  judge  them  ?  What  balances  has 
indifference  by  which  it  can  test  the  fury  of  warring 
opposites  ?  Without  some  living  interest  in  the  issue, 
history  looks  to  us  as  the  wild  medley  of  madmen, 
whose  rage,  and  anxieties,  and  designs  fill  us  with  a 
painful  distress  at  their  reckless  exaggeration,  at  their 
ungentle  obstinacy.  Something  is  wrong,  then ;  the 
historian  must  have  a  cue  by  which  to  disentangle  this 
disorder :  he  must  see,  and  make  for,  a  right  and  a 
wrong :  he  must  compel  us  to  pass  under  the  anxieties 
that  harass  the  onward  movements  of  the  good  :  he 
must  fill  us  with  indignant  wrath  at  the  terrible  work- 
ing of  the  wrong. 

So  we  are  pulled  up,  yet  without  making  quite  clear 


The  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation.  47 


to  ourselves  how  far  or  in  what  sense  we  are  limiting 
our  original  position,  that  the  historian  is  to  be  free 
from  all  partiality. 

Or  again,  in  theology,  we  go  on  pretty  freely  with 
those  who  plead  that  if  truth  he  the  sole  aim,  the 
searcher  must  surely  he  loose  from  all  presuppositions 
that  bind  him  to  a  particular  conclusion,  until  it  is  at 
last  provokingly  suggested  that  the  possession  of  a 
belief  is  a  positive  disqualification  for  a  theologian. 

Here  we  draw  up  again.  An  absurdity  has  come 
about;  yet  where  exactly  is  the  flaw  in  the  argument? 
It  is  not  so  easy  to  say ;  only  we  feel  that,  somewhere 
or  other,  there  is  a  limitation  to  our  first  position  ;  but 
where  it  falls,  is  left  to  our  private  common-sense  to 
determine  ;  and  each  of  us  roughly  places  it  there,  where 
he  himself  habitually  happens  to  arrive  at  assumptions 
which,  to  his  mind,  may  fairly  be  considered  final. 

It  is  this  difficulty,  underlying  and  troubling  our 
common  discussion,  which  is  brought  to  a  head  in  the 
formula  I  have  quoted  from  M.  Eenan;  and  I  would 
ask  you  to  consider  for  a  few  moments  whether  the 
truth  of  the  first  half  of  the  statement  will  not,  of 
necessity,  turn  the  second  half  into  paradox  :  whether  it 
be  not  a  bit  of  grim  humour  to  suggest  that  the  critic, 
in  the  field  of  religious  belief,  requires  for  his  task  the 
use  of  two  inconsistent  and  divorced  tempers. 

To  give  the  adequate  history  of  a  religion,  then,  you 
must  first  have  believed  it.  This  is  our  primary  datum  : 
and  this  means  surely  that  the  elements  of  that  rational 
intelligibility,  which  comes  to  the  surface  under  the 
action  of  the  critical  reason,  are  to  be  found  within  the 
living  material  of  the  belief  itself. 


48        The  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation. 


Eeason  does  not  find  its  ground,  its  justification,  its 
credibility,  its  evidence  in  itself,  in  its  own  separate 
and  distinct  working ;  it  goes  for  these  to  that  on 
which  it  works.  There  lies  all  its  intelligibility.  The 
gain  achieved  by  the  reason  is  simply  the  disclosure 
that  the  belief  was  already  rational.  All  that  it  dis- 
closes was  already  the  life  and  substance  of  that  effort 
which  we  call  Faith.  Eeason  does  but  parallel  within 
its  own  region,  on  its  own  conditions,  that  temper  of 
mind  which  held  secreted  within  it  all  tbat  which  now 
emerges  into  intelligible  form.  It  offers  an  equivalent 
to  what  has  before  been  felt :  and  if  so,  then  the  man 
who  knows  both  sides  can  alone  appreciate  the  value  of 
the  equivalence.  To  him,  indeed,  the  living  agent  in  both 
fields,  this  equivalence  is  no  arbitrary  and  inexplicable 
symbolism :  for  lie  comes  to  himself  in  each :  he  is  the 
same  being  in  each :  he  is  sure  of  his  own  identity 
throughout,  and  cannot,  therefore,  treat  the  two  fields  of 
his  life  as  if  they  were  sundered  by  a  blind  gulf:  but 
still  his  ultimate  consciousness  is  simply  the  direct 
consciousness  of  the  reality  of  this  parallelism  between 
the  matter  of  his  thought  and  the  form  which  thought 
gives  it.  And  any  process  of  reasoning,  therefore,  any 
structure  of  thought,  is  only  really  intelligible  to  him 
when  it  conveys  to  him  something  more  than  it  actually 
says ;  when  it  suggests  that  of  which  it  offers  an  image; 
when  it  enables  him  to  assume  all  that  it  embodies,  and 
reflects,  and  refashions,  and  exhibits. 

And  what  an  immense  task  has  reason  undertaken, 
then,  when  it  attempts  the  critical  portrayal  of  a 
spiritual  faith  I 


The  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation. 


49 


A  task  genu  inn,  indeed  justifiable,  fruitful,  progres- 
sive; but  yet  bow  vast,  bow  complicated,  bow  delicate  ! 
It  has  undertaken  to  offer  and  present  an  intellectual 
parallel  tbat  will  answer  and  correspond,  in  all  its  parts 
and  proportions,  to  that  huge  emotional  movement 
which  expresses  itself  in  an  entire  religion.  It  proposes 
to  carry  this  whole  body  of  spiritual  activity  across  from 
one  region  of  life  into  another,  that  it  may  make  it 
intelligible  by  the  very  fact  of  giving  it  its  double, 
of  presenting  to  it  its  adequate  equivalent.  To  appre- 
ciate such  a  task,  we  must  recall  to  mind  the  depth 
and  subtlety  of  tbat  with  which  its  reason  has  to  deal. 
How  can  we  measure  its  wonder,  its  overwhelming 
profundity  ? 

Let  us  example  it  by  that  other  mode,  by  which  we 
attempt  the  measure  of  our  emotions,  the  mode  of  Art. 
Art,  as  well  as  thought,  offers  to  explain  our  inner 
movements  of  soul  by  repeating  them  in  a  new  region, 
and  by  the  aid  of  a  new  material ;  and  the  complexities 
of  the  arts,  therefore,  are  but  an  effort  to  gauge  com- 
plexities of  spirit. 

A  piece  of  orchestral  music,  with  its  web  of  inter- 
woven melodies,  its  mazes  of  winding  sound,  its  con- 
course of  respondent  instruments,  its  rhythmic  sequences, 
its  intricate  variety  of  repetition,  its  rises  and  falls  and 
balanced  counterparts,  its  pauses,  its  refrains,  its  quad- 
ruple movements,  that  meet,  and  sunder,  and  return,  and 
retire,  its  long  and  linked  sweetness,  its  storm  of  gathered 
forces,  its  full  and  flowing  wealth  of  multitudinous 
harmonies, — all  this  most  subtle  and  powerful  fabric  of 
our  invention,  almost  infinite  in  its  manifold  appliances, 

D 


50        The  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation. 


is  but  the  machinery  by  which  we  attempt  to  embody 
and  represent  one  small  portion  of  that  enormous  world 
of  spiritual  life,  which  is  alive  within  the  range  and 
compass  of  any  single  human  soul.  Not  all  the  utmost 
elaboration  of  that  marvellous  musical  skill  can  go  be- 
yond the  limits  of  those  passions  which  we  hold,  every 
one  of  us,  within  ourselves;  and  can  use,  and  exercise, 
and  enjoy,  whenever  the  quickening  touch  of  some 
sympathetic  motion  flashes  out  upon  us  from  within 
or  from  without.  Not  all  the  tremulous  voices  of 
the  flutes,  not  all  the  swift  sighings  of  the  violins, 
not  all  the  noise  of  clanging  trumpets  or  of  shudder- 
ing drums,  can  equal  or  exhaust  the  splendour 
of  our  daily  human  joys,  the  throbbings  of  our 
loves,  the  quick  pulsations  of  our  fears,  the  nerveless 
sinking  of  our  stricken  hearts.  The  lovers  that 
move  on  still  evenings  along  the  sheltering  lanes, 
the  mourners  that  creep  back  from  a  silent  grave  to  a 
sullen  and  desolate  home,  these  know  more  than  all  that 
storm  of  sound  will  ever  say.  As  we  listen  to  high 
music,  rapt  and  uplifted,  we  learn  what  it  is  that  we 
ourselves  have  been,  what  it  is  that  we  have  felt,  what 
it  is  that  we  could  be,  if  the  call  came,  if  the  blow 
struck,  if  the  light  broke  in,  if  the  darkness  swept  down. 
AVe  are  surprised,  it  may  be,  to  discover  all  that  is 
possible.  We  are  carried  forward  to  explore  new  regions 
of  our  souls  as  yet  untouched  and  untrodden :  there  is 
much,  we  see,  to  open  out,  much  to  free,  much  to  expose 
and  expand :  fresh  springs  of  feeling  are  set  loose :  the 
doors  and  windows  of  all  hidden  chambers  are  flung  open  : 
at  the  kiss  of  this  sweet  music,  all  that  had  slept  in 


The  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation.        5 1 


frozen  silence  leaps  upward  into  movement,  startled  by 
the  touch  of  joy,  or  the  sudden  quickening  of  some 
tender  thrill.  We  are  surprised :  yes !  but  we  are  not 
surpassed,  we  are  not  outdone,  we  are  not  dismayed  or 
disappointed :  still  we  have  it  in  us,  we  are  assured,  to 
be  all  that  the  music  can  ever  tell.  That  huge  and 
intricate  life,  whose  long  story  it  is  imagining,  is  ours, 
is  shut  up  within  our  souls:  we  have  felt  it  stirring, 
we  recognise  it  all,  we  understand.  This  is  why  it 
speaks  home  to  us,  speaks  with  such  familiar  voices, 
with  such  intelligible  pathos,  with  such  illuminating 
eloquence;  and  far  as  the  musician's  ingenuity  may  ever 
reach,  still  all  he  can  ever  achieve  will  but  continue  to 
reveal  the  untold  depths,  and  height,  and  length,  and 
breadth  of  those  emotions,  under  whose  sway  we  now 
are  moving, — of  those  impulses  which  we  ourselves  can, 
even  now,  in  strong  and  passionate  hours,  both  touch, 
and  taste,  and  handle. 

Here,  then,  in  those  mazes  of  musical  writings,  with 
all  their  elaborate  and  bewildering  symbols,  their  endless 
intricacy  of  mechanism,  we  see  some  sample  of  the 
measurement  demanded  by  the  play,  and  motion,  and 
variation  of  that  spiritual  stuff  which  makes  our  original 
and  essential  life. 

We  might  example  it  again  in  the  familiar  instance 
of  a  people's  literature.  How  huge  is  the  effort  there 
embodied !  The  very  grammar  itself  of  each  separate 
tongue  is  a  marvel  of  ingenious  and  manifold  devices 
by  which  every  shade  of  changing  significance  may  find 
its  expression.  And  yet  this  is  but  the  beginning. 
That  language,  already  in  its  barest  grammatical  form, 


52        TJie  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation. 


a  most  intricate  structure,  is  taken  up,  and  turned 
and  twisted  this  way  and  that,  with  a  thousand 
thousand  minutely  different  transpositions,  into  periods 
suhtly  varied,  modulated  by  ever-shifting  intonations, 
with  unwearied  persistence,  with  infinite  pains,  that 
at  last  it  may  succeed  in  giving  some  slight  gradation 
of  sentiment  which  no  single  expression  had  yet 
adequately  conveyed.  This  or  that  feeling  remains 
hidden  and  lost,  restless  and  uneasy,  until  some  tiny 
Transference  of  phrases,  some  curious  change,  indescrib- 
able and  unanticipated,  in  the  sequence  of  the  words, 
attains  victorious  utterance  through  some  prophetic 
lips :  we  recognise  it  in  an  instant.  That  is  what  we 
waited  for:  that  is  the^  word :  no  other  but  that.  A 
hundred  poets  had  striven  to  say  it,  but  no  one  till 
now  could  exactly  seize  what  we  felt  and  knew.  So 
delicate  are  the  balances,  so  minute  the  scales  with 
which  we  test  our  inner  life  ! 

And  if  this  is  so,  if  this  is  true  of  all  that  stuff  of 
human  passions  which  music  and  literature  attempt  to 
parallel  and  measure ;  if  each  separate  emotion  of  the 
heart  be  capable  of  such  consummate  and  minute 
intricacy  of  difference,  what,  then,  must  be  the  power, 
and  fulness,  and  depth  of  that  supreme  spiritual 
movement  in  which  the  entire  man,  gathering  up  into 
a  single  effort  all  that  builds  up  his  humanity,  all  his 
aspirations  of  love,  all  his  passion  of  desire,  all  his 
vehemence  of  curiosity,  all  his  indignation  at 
wrong,  all  his  desperate  horror  of  remorse,  all  his 
bitterness  of  desolation,  all  his  .hunger  for  help, 
all  his  straining  after  righteousness,  all  his  inspiration 


The  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation.  53 


of  hope,  all  his  terror  of  death,  all  his  searching  of  soul, 
all  his  agony  of  sin,  all  his  audacity  of  faith,; — summoning 
the  whole  body  of  emotional  impulses  to  his  succoiir, 
throws  himself  forward  with  indomitable  devotion,  with 
unutterable  effort,  into  the  arms  of  God  ? 

This  is  religion :  this  is  the  supreme  moment  which 
crowns  that  strange  and  secret  life  which  all  the  powers 
of  art  have  for  so  long  striven  to  test,  and  weigh,  and  sift, 
and  sort,  and  distinguish,  and  arrange.  They  have  spent 
their  strength  again  and  again  in  giving  some  echo,  some 
reflection  of  that  gladness  which  any  man  and  maiden 
feel  when  first  they  know  the  response  of  love  ;  and,  lo  ! 
here  is  a  love,  dominant  and  high,  under  the  pressure 
of  which  men  have  cast  to  the  winds  all  the  treasures 
of  that  lower  human  love  in  which  art  has  found  so 
inexhaustible,  so  unutterable  a  theme !  Here  is  a 
sorrow  which  all  the  pangs  and  pains  of  earthly  desola- 
tion do  but  faintly  portray,  the  sorrow  of  an  eternal 
love  !  Here  is  a  death  whose  horror  and  woe  the  bodily 
corruption  does  but  seal  and  confirm  !  "Who  can  tell, 
then,  the  immensity  of  this  huge  world  into  which  we 
have  entered  ?  Who  can  penetrate  or  number  its 
spaces,  its  secrecies,  its  maze  of  marvellous  chambers, 
its  halls,  its  towers,  its  ways,  and  paths,  and  wander- 
ings 1  If  the  lower  emotions  demanded  all  that  subtle 
and  delicate  handling,  then  the  highest  emotion 
will  be  yet  more  sensitive  than  they.  It  will  hold  a 
richer  abundance  of  mysterious  charms ;  it  will  repel, 
far  more  than  they,  imperfect  and  unworthy  expres- 
sions :  it  will  appreciate  yet  stronger  differences  and 
yet  more  rigorous  distinctions. 


54 


The  Spirit,  audits  Interpretation. 


Nor  is  this  all.  The  sum  of  the  difficulty  is  yet  to 
come.  This  peculiar  sublimation  of  the  entire  man, 
which  crowns  his  emotional  and  spiritual  activity,  and 
which  we  name  religion,  wins  for  itself  strange  and 
novel  conditions.  Here,  at  the  summit  of  fleshly  life, 
we  pass  over  the  fleshly  limits ;  the  whole  movement 
upward,  which  has  tended  throughout  to  surpass  itself, 
to  overstep  its  natural  boundaries,  to  generate  fresh 
motions  as  fast  as  it  completes  them,  to  reach  out  after 
discoveries  of  wider  range  and  larger  meaning  than  any 
yet  attained — this  movement  does  here,  at  last,  in 
religion  arrive  at  that  transcendence  after  which  it  has 
strained  from  the  first.  Here,  at  last,  it  does  not 
merely  push  out  feelers  into  an  unknown  beyond,  but 
is  conscious  of  a  response  that  meets  it  from  without, 
of  a  fulfilment  which  enters  in  to  answer  its  efforts,  of 
a  correspondence  between  its  inward  dreams  and  its 
outward  experience.  For  long  it  has  pushed  and 
thrust  into  the  dark ;  it  has  known  only  the  dim 
stir  of  flying  cries  that  spoke  and  flew  away.  Now 
there  are  hands  that  touch,  there  are  arms  that  uphold, 
there  is  a  voice  that  abides,  there  are  words  that  greet 
it  with  effectual  welcome.  Powers  from  afar  mix  and 
mingle  with  its  endeavours :  an  unknown  glory  dazzles 
it  with  sudden  consecration  :  blessings  move  down  from 
above  charged  with  the  grace  of  abounding  consolation. 
That  mystery  of  the  unseen,  in  all  other  fields  vague 
and  insecure,  has  now  in  the  region  of  religion  be- 
come steady,  and  certain,  and  persistent.  The  super- 
natural has  discovered  itself,  has  set  loose  its  forces  so 
long  restrained :  it  puts  out  its  strength  and  works. 


The  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation.        5  5 


And  under  this  strong  working  that  now  interweaves 
its  motion  into  the  intricacy  of  human  efforts,  man's 
impulses  receive  their  transfiguration.  They  win  for 
themselves  solidity,  consistency,  security.  They  no 
longer  grope,  they  touch  ;  they  no  longer  feel,  they 
grasp  ;  they  no  longer  waver,  they  make  for  their  aim, 
they  go  forward  with  glad  confidence ;  they  have  found 
the  path  which  no  fowl  knoweth ;  they  pass  in  within 
the  golden  doors ;  they  are  raised  from  tentative 
emotions  into  assured  beliefs ;  they  have  transcended 
their  former  hesitations,  their  loose  and  irregular 
movements ;  they  have  been  shot  through  by  a  new 
fire,  the  flame  of  the  spirit ;  they  are  uplifted  into 
a  faith.  Now,  for  them,  that  which  they  report,  that 
which  they  touch,  that  with  which  they  hold  com- 
munion, asserts  undoubted  dominance  over  all  the  lesser 
motives  of  the  heart  and  of  the  spirit.  It  is  not  made 
known,  except  as  supreme,  alone,  victorious,  worth  more 
than  silver,  or  rubies,  or  coral.  This  is  the  peculiar 
significance  of  a  faith.  It  cannot  be  held  as  one  emotion 
among  many.  It  leaps  into  some  strange  solitude  of 
power.  It  lays  triumphant  and  masterful  pressure 
upon  the  swarming  desires,  upon  the  struggling  will. 
Its  strangeness  lies  in  this  mastery  :  it  is  not  significant, 
if  it  is  not  imperious.  Yet,  whence  comes  this  royal 
rigour,  unless  we  may  assume  the  entry  in  upon  the 
scenery  of  human  wishes  of  that  mysterious  Power, 
invisible,  eternal,  of  whose  action  we  have  just  spoken 
— that  action  which  breaks  in  from  some  world  beyond 
upon  the  drama  of  our  passions  and  our  prayers  ? 

This  is  religion.    It  is  the  crowning  and  transcendent 


56        The  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation. 


movement  which  reason  undertakes  to  rationalize,  and 
rightly  undertakes.  It  is  not  the  right  that  we  are 
questioning.  If  religion  is  the  ^expression,  the  act  of 
the  entire  man,  and  not  merely  of  some  peculiar  and 
isolated  organ  in  his  being,  it  is  inevitable  that  reason, 
which  is  part  and  parcel  of  that  wholeness  which  is  the 
man,  should  have  its  say  about  that  action  in  which  it 
itself,  in  its  corporate  capacity,  as  bound  up  with  the 
unity  of  spirit,  has  already  borne  its  share.  It  is  in- 
evitable ;  it  cannot  be  excluded  from  that  which  is  its 
i  to.  Who,  indeed,  would  desire  its  exclusion  ?  Such 
office  of  rational  interpretation  is  thought's  highest  and 
noblest  labour,  without  which  the  spiritual  movements 
themselves  would  work  in  oppressive  and  discouraging 
darkness,  without  freedom,  without  joy.  They  would 
miss  their  natural  fruit,  the  blessed  fruit  of  intelligent 
self-discovery ;  they  would  lack  their  true  and  perfect 
development. 

Nay,  it  is  just  because  the  entire  activity  of  faith  is 
so  eminently  and  intimately  related  to  reason  that  the 
difficulty  of  which  I  speak  is»so  pressing.  For  it  is  not 
from  outside  or  incidentally  that  thought  touches  the 
works  of  faith :  it  penetrates  the  whole  mass  :  it  is 
woven  into  the  fabric  itself :  it  is  inherent  in  the  struc- 
ture, in  the  constitution,  in  the  material.  Its  office  is 
to  disclose  this,  its  pre-existent  presence  ;  to  unfold  its 
secret  prevalence,  that  prevalence  in  virtue  of  which  it 
finds  itself  now  enabled  to  bring  forward,  to  estimate, 
to  manipulate,  to  define  the  whole  articulated  scheme, 
allotting  the  due  balance,  the  fit  proportion  of  part  to 
part,  of  part  to  whole,  rendering  account  of  the  distinc- 


The  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation.       5  7 


tions,  distributing  tiie  gradations  of  force,  justifying  the 
fluctuations,  and  changes,  and  advances  of  the  spiritual 
momentum. 

This  is  its  labour ;  and  no  wonder,  then,  that  such  a 
work  can  only  be  attempted  with  success  by  those 
whose  reason  has,  at  least  once,  enjoyed  a  living  and 
energetic  contact  with  that  which  it  proposes  to  unravel. 
No  wonder,  perhaps,  if  it  should  be  found  impossible 
to  ensure  positive  advance,  unless  this  contact  be  still 
preserved  fresh,  and  effective,  and  inspiring. 

For  can  it  be  believed  that  thought  can  afford  to 
permit  this  fortifying,  interpretative  touch  to  become  a 
fading  memory,  already  past  and  gone  ?  Can  it  work 
securely  on  the  basis  of  an  inspiration  which  has 
already,  for  it,  ceased  to  be  justifiable,  and  therefore 
rational  ?  Even  if  it  can  recall  something  of  its  lost 
emotion,  yet  the  very  fact  that  that  emotion  is  now  an 
impossibility  turns  all  its  niceties  of  difference  into 
empty  and  frivolous  distinctions:  the  edge  is  taken  nil 
its  subtle  varieties  of  flavour:  they  no  longer  possess 
this  ancient  significance.  Can  we  ever  efficiently  recall 
them,  any  more  than  we  can  requicken  into  actual  revival 
the  quiver  and  sting  of  any  other  vivid  sensation  long 
dead  and  gone  ?  Surely  they  slumber  in  remembrance, 
they  touch  us  with  the  unreal  doubtfulness  of  dreams ; 
and  yet  it  is  in  their  vividness,  their  sharpness,  their 
unmistakable  effect,  that  their  rationality  lies.  They 
are  susceptible  of  intelligible  distinctions — these  spiritual 
sensations — only  because  they  are  so  sensitively  differ- 
ent, only  when  they  are  experimentally  distinct. 

And  if  it  be  hard  to  recall  the  varied  impress  of  these 


58        The  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation. 


abandoned  spiritual  emotions,  how  much  harder  yet  to 
recover  and  revive  that  which  can  never  be  again ; 
that  peculiar  emphasis  which  raised  them  from  a  feeling 
into  a  faith  ;  that  touch  of  mastery,  of  supremacy,  which 
gave  them  a  dominance  such  as  no  other  emotions  con- 
veyed or  contained  ;  that  prophetic  power  which  turned 
them  from  passing  impressions  into  permanent  symbols, 
into  secure  revelations,  into  sacramental  moments  such 
as  seal  us  to  themselves,  moments  not  possessed  but 
possessing,  not  our  own  but  come  from  afar,  not  acci- 
dental but  of  eternal  validity  ? 

Does  this  mean  that  no  religious  criticism  is  possible 
except  to  those  in  full  belief  ? 

Who  would  venture  to  assert  what  facts  would  so 
obviously  gainsay  ?  We  are  far  too  mindful  of  all  the 
brilliant  and  suggestive  gains  won  out  of  the  critical 
struggles  of  the  last  fifty  years  to  make  such  a  limita- 
tion possible  to  us.  The  movements  of  the  human 
spirit  are  indeed  too  complicated  and  varied  to  be 
covered  adequately  by  any  one  rule,  or  formula:  or, 
again,  a  principle  may  be  valid,  a  formula  absolute,  and 
yet  the  traces  of  its  working  may  lie  hidden  amid 
all  the  manifold  intricacies  of  the  material  with  which 
it  deals,  and  often  it  will  appear  to  be  contradicted  as 
a  law  by  the  very  effects  it  produces.  The  lights,  for 
instance,  that  in  our  time  come  flashing  in  upon  the 
Christian  problem,  from  a  hundred  opposing  points, 
may  be  but  witnesses  that  the  very  intensity  of  partial 
and  one-sided  belief  may  enable  it  to  penetrate  more 
deeply  into  this  or  that  recess  of  the  faith,  and  to  drag 
out   the  intimate  secrets  there  lurking  into  clearer 


The  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation. 


59 


intelligibility  tlian  had  ever  been  possible  to  a  more 
balanced  and  entire  belief. 

So,  again,  there  are  differences  in  the  degree  in  which 
the  presence  of  faith  will  affect  the  various  fields  of 
study.  The  examination  of  the  documents,  of  their 
origin,  of  their  production,  differs  widely  from  the  eluci- 
dation of  dogma,  as  every  one  would  admit.  It  is  more 
difficult  to  detect,  what  I  would  especially  notice  this 
morning,  how  widely  the  historical  criticism  of  a 
religion  depends  for  its  results  on  the  spiritual  temper, 
on  the  spiritual  apprehension  of  the  critic.  Yet  his 
estimate  of  what  is  probable,  of  what  is  possible  in  the 
past,  his  calculation  of  motives,  of  forces,  his  interpreta- 
tion of  conduct,  must  all  turn  on  his  capacity  of  vivid 
and  experimental  insight  into  the  nature  of  those 
Presences  and  Powers,  whose  effects  he  is  measuring, 
and  whose  significance  he  professes  to  declare.  It  is  at 
once  rational  and  inevitable  that  a  difference  of  belief 
as  to  the  character  of  the  forces  engaged  in  the  making 
of  human  history  should  involve  our  distrust  of  any 
historian,  between  whom  and  ourselves  such  difference 
lies :  it  is  natural  that  any  emphatic  difference  of  the 
kind  should  issue  in  a  collision  of  interpretations  :  and 
it  is  rational  and  inevitable,  therefore,  that,  without 
presuming  to  limit  the  right  of  others  to  jud_;e  and 
weigh  the  story  of  the  Past  after  their  own  mode  and 
by  their  own  standards,  a  Church  which  has  a  faith  about 
life  should  yet  endeavour  to  secure  for  itself  a  succes- 
sion of  students,  who  will  come  to  the  interpretation  of 
her  history  with  a  spirit  that  is  sensitive  to  all  the 
forces  which  she  believes  to  have  been  at  work  ;  a  spirit 


6o 


The  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation. 


that  feels  and  knows  as  its  own  the  aims  and  the  inspira- 
tions that,  as  she  believes,  have  moved  men  and  women 
in  the  days  that  are  dead ;  a  spirit  that  applies  her 
standards  to  the  motives  of  conduct,  and  calculates 
probabilities  according  to  her  estimate  of  the  chances, 
and  weighs  out  profit  and  loss  by  her  rule  and  balance  ; 
a  spirit  that  instinctively  hopes  what  she  hopes,  trusts 
what  she  trusts,  ignores  what  she  ignores. 

"  To  write  the  history  of  a  religion  a  man  must  have 
believed  it  once."  Yes  !  and  if  it  be  needful  once,  then 
— if  the  criticism  is  ever  to  be  other  than  fragmentary, 
if  it  is  ever  to  be  vital,  and  fruitful,  and  entire — it 
cannot  but  be  needful  always :  for  to  have  lost  the 
belief  is,  as  the  formrua  confesses,  to  have  lost  the  key 
to  its  history.  It  is,  surely,  only  in  sad  irony,  in  bitter 
mistrust,  that  it  is  added,  "  he  must  have  believed  it 
once,  but  he  must  believe  it  no  longer." 

Has  belief,  then,  by  its  own  faithlessness,  incurred 
this  taunt  against  its  honesty,  its  uprightness,  its 
courage  ?  Has  it,  indeed,  feared  to  face  its  own 
problems  with  the  reality  and  the  singleness  of  heart 
which  unbelief  can  bring  to  their  unravelling  ?  Has  its 
sincerity,  then,  fallen  so  low  that  it  cannot  be  trusted  to 
use  an  equal  scale  ?  Has  it  had  to  appeal  to  those  who 
have  not  enjoyed  its  good  chances,  nor  possess  its 
excellent  tools,  to  assist  it  in  the  task  for  which  it  alone 
is  adequately  equipped  ? 

These  are  solemn  questions  for  us.  They  cannot  be 
dismissed  by  a  brave  word  of  frank  denial :  they  arouse 
in  us  shameful  and  humiliating  doubts.  We  ought  to 
have  seen  for  ourselves  long  ago  much  that  now  we  are 


The  Spirit,  and  its  Interpretation.        6 1 


shown  by  others'  guidance.  We  ought  to  have  learned 
to  correct  our  blundering  misapprehensions,  without 
having  had  to  undergo  such  late  and  painful  schooling. 

It  is  for  us  to  bow  our  heads  in  confession  and 
penitence  before  a  God  of  truth,  a  God  Who  mightily 
secures  us  against  all  those  perils  which  we  so  dreaded 
to  face,  and  to  ask  ourselves,  one  and  all,  in  the  light  of 
His  instructing  Spirit,  what  faithless  fears  we  have 
allowed  to  hinder  us,  what  mistrust  of  His  power  yet 
corrupts  our  honesty,  what  sloth  yet  blinds  our  eyes  to 
that  new  dawn  which  is  smiling  in  at  this  hour  upon 
our  night  of  dreams,  illuminating  our  languor,  and 
reproaching  our  unready  sleep. 


SERMON  IV. 
THE  COST  OF  MOEAL  MOVEMENT. 

"  iHlnto  Mjomsotbcr  mud)  is  gibrn,  oHnm  sfjall  ucmuch  rcquirco :  anB 
to  toljom  mm  fjafac  tommittro  mucfj,  of  rjim  tljcg  will  ask  tljc  more." — 
St.  Luke  xii.  48. 

Lent  cannot  but  enter  into  this  life  that  we  lead 
at  Oxford  with  the  sharp  shock  pf  a  surprise.  It 
is  a  time  that  asks  for  strong  lines,  and  downright 
colours,  and  clear-cut  forms.  It  supposes  that  we  can 
mark  out  our  days  according  to  the  needs  of  the  moral 
life:  that  we  know  undoubtingly  what  good  is,  and 
what  evil  is ;  what  we  aim  at,  and  what  we  lack :  that 
we  can  define  our  habits,  and  can  set  to  work  at  shaping 
our  tone  and  temper  by  a  rigid  canon  and  with  decisive 
tests.  It  assumes,  above  all,  that  there  will  be  already 
in  us  such  a  fervent  desire  for  holiness,  such  a  horror  at 
the  corruption  of  sin,  that  we  shall  be  ready  by  a  certain 
hour,  at  a  certain  day,  to  give  especial  emphasis  to 
our  search  for  the  one,  to  our  strife  against  the  other. 
So  Lent  thrusts  itself  in,  rough  and  abrupt,  and  how 
does  it  find  us  ?  It  finds  us  mingled  together,  Christian 
and  unchristian,  good  and  bad,  sinner  and  saint,  all 
engaged  in  the  same  work,  fashioned  in  the  same  mould, 
moving  amid  the  same  interests,  mixing  in  the  same 
crowd,  clothed  in  the  same  garb,  sensitive  to  the  same 


The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement.  63 


feelings,  talking  the  same  talk.  Nor  does  this  outward 
appearance  belie  the  inward  condition  of  things.  We 
look  within  ourselves,  and  still  the  same  confused  uni- 
formity puzzles  us  with  its  indistinguishable  sameness. 
Within,  as  well  as  without,  no  sharp  dividing  lines  start 
out  into  distinction :  no  rigid  black  clashes  against  as 
rigid  a  white :  a  thousand  influences  cross,  and  inter- 
mingle, and  intertwine,  and  each  of  them  seems  to  come 
equally  from  faith  or  unbelief,  from  Christianity  or 
paganism,  from  good  or  from  evil,  from  heaven  or  from 
hell.  We  cannot  analyze  their  elements ;  we  cannot 
sever  their  kind ;  we  cannot  fix  their  origin,  cannot  tell, 
with  any  precision,  whence  they  come,  nor  whither  they 
go :  they  meet,  and  move,  and  part  again,  and  reappear 
in  strange  shapes  and  shifting  scenes,  at  one  moment 
greeting  us  as  angels  of  light,  at  another  we  seem  to 
catch  sight  in  them  of  the  devil's  leer,  and  to  hear 
echoes  of  some  sudden  shout  of  demon-laughter.  One 
feeling  is  fair,  yet  as  we  look  at  it,  it  dwindles,  and 
withers,  and  grows  old :  another  strikes  in  upon  us,  at 
first  forbidding  and  uncouth,  yet  under  our  very  eyes 
it  changes,  it  stirs  with  hidden  powers,  it  is  transfigured 
with  light  and  loveliness.  Which  are  we  to  believe  ? 
Which  are  we  to  follow  ?  Lent  puts  the  knife  into  our 
hands  ;  but  what  are  we  to  cut  out  of  our  lives  ?  Which 
is  the  evil  that  is  to  be  hacked  and  hewn  ?  Which  is  the 
good  that  we  must  die  to  preserve  ?  Nothing  comes  to 
supply  us  with  a  clear  answer.  None  of  us  are  put  to 
searching  proof.  It  is,  for  instance,  action  that  forces 
strong  decisions :  it  is  action  that  sharpens  trials,  and 
reveals  flaws:  it  is  then  that  the  leak  breaks  out, 


64  The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement. 


that  the  weak  planks  start.  But  we,  we  are  shut  out 
from  much  action :  we  are  not  forced  into  difficult 
situations,  nor  driven  to  stake  all  on  perplexed  issues, 
nor  dared  to  test  all  the  praotical  thoroughness  of  our 
convictions. 

Nor,  again,  do  violent  temptations  often  lay  brutal 
hands  upon  us.  These  come  to  those  who  have  hard 
work  and  little  satisfaction,  to  men  who  find  few 
pleasures  at  hand,  few  and  meagre  interests  to  absorb 
them,  narrow  and  mean  surroundings,  without  refresh- 
ments and  without  ease.  But  we  are  whipped  by  no 
such  scorpions.  We  have  no  such  compelling  hunger. 
We  have  endless  vents  for  excitement;  we  can  spend 
ourselves  in  infinite  directions;  we  can  feed  our  emotions ; 
we  can  expand  our  sympathies;  we  are  nursed  along 
softly  ;  we  feast  on  fat  things,  on  wines  of  the  lees  well 
refined;  our  sensibilities  are  not  imprisoned  or  un- 
regarded ;  things  about  us  are  full  of  grace,  of  gentleness, 
of  fair  delight.  We  may  indeed  fret  amid  all  this  easy 
wealth,  we  may  waste  ourselves  in  the  littleness  of  dis- 
content, but  such  tempers  as  this  do  not  lead  to  great 
and  awful  sins.  There  is  no  flow  of  unrealized  passion 
to  be  gathered  up  behind  huge  and  silent  barriers,  until 
the  main  bulk  of  our  being  hurls  itself  down  evil 
channels  in  some  vast  and  thunderous  outbreak. 

There  is  nothing,  therefore,  to  produce  any  violent  and 
startling  difference  between  man  and  man,  between  one 
act  of  our  own  and  another:  varieties  of  faith  exhibit 
no  bold  contrasts  in  practice.  If  we  have  a  creed,  we 
seem  no  better  than  another :  if  we  have  none,  we  seem 
no  worse.    Materialism  is  not  coarse,  nor  idealism  ex- 


The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement.  65 


travagant.  The  common  culture  which  fashions  us  all 
ensures  to  us  all  the  same  sensitiveness  to  ugliness, 
to  absurdity  ;  and,  since  violent  sin  is  both  absurd"  and 
ugly,  we  all  have  a  horror  against  it.  We  have  all  of 
us,  too,  the  same  duties  towards  younger  men  than  our- 
selves :  we  are  responsible  for  our  example  :  we  are  held 
back,  by  the  necessities  of  our  position,  from  any  peril- 
ous break  with  traditional  codes,  from  any  offensive 
affront  to  principles,  or  standards  that  we  ourselves  do 
not  happen  to  hold.  We  live  very  near  each  other :  our 
life  is  in  public :  it  is  open  to  all  men  to  see  what  we 
do :  we  are  discussed,  criticised,  observed,  by  young  and 
old,  by  parents  and  pupils,  by  authorities  and  followers, 
by  enemies  and  friends.  We  cannot  be  heedless ;  we 
dare  not  be  secret.  Everything  conspires  to  check  all 
that  outrages,  all  that  shocks.  It  is  almost  impos- 
sible for  any  of  us  to  sin  hard  and  broad.  And 
the  result  is  that  the  lines  between  good  and  evil 
are  difficult  to  seize :  they  float  vaguely  in  this  large 
atmosphere :  they  vanish  as  we  try  to  fix  them :  they 
slip  from  under  our  hands  as  we  feel  after  them : 
subtle,  shadowy,  impalpable,  they  come  to  seem,  at  last, 
but  light  and  airy  distinctions  to  which  it  is  hard  not 
to  be  indifferent,  and  it  is  into  such  a  dreamy,  indis- 
tinguishable, hazy  world  as  this,  that  Lent  abruptly 
thrusts  its  rigid  and  imperative  demand.  It  does  not 
politely  refrain  from  introducing  itself  into  such  an 
ordered  and  gentle  place.  Still  it  presses  in:  still  it 
seems  to  be  confident  of  work  to  be  done :  still  it  talks 
hard  words,  and  lays  down  rules  of  austere  defiance. 
Sackcloth  and  ashes,  fasting  and  contrition,  penance 

E 


66  The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement. 


and  judgment,  God  and  devil.  These  are  phrases,  it 
insists,  of  real  meaning  to  us  as  to  all ;  for  through  us, 
too,  the  lines  of  distinction  are  in  reality  being  ran, 
sharp,  vivid,  decisive  as  ever.  The  judgment  is  sunder- 
ing good  and  evil  with  unwavering  sureness.  Clear 
through  all  this  thick  and  misty  air,  amid  the  close  and 
matted  trees  of  the  luxuriant  garden,  the  voice  of  God 
is  forcing  its  way,  resistless  as  the  sound  of  a  trumpet, 
steadfast  as  an  arrow,  piercing  as  a  two-edged  sword. 
We  cannot  escape  it:  we  know  this  too  well.  Forget 
it  as  we  will,  conceal  it  as  we  may,  there  is,  we  dimly 
feel,  a  trespass  in  our  tent,  there  is  sin  in  our  clothes : 
somewhere,  hid  in  the  earth,  in  the  secret  places  of  our 
lives,  there  lies  buried  some  goodly  Babylonish  gar- 
ment, some  wedge  of  Canaanite  gold.  It  is  little,  it  is 
nothing,  it  is  unperceived,  it  is  hardly  worth  noticing. 
We  ourselves  do  not  understand  or  recognise  its  shame, 
its  corrupting  influence  ;  yet  the  eternal  issues  of  right 
and  wrong  are  working  themselves  out  upon  it,  are 
involved  in  it.  To  us,  too,  as  surely  as  to  the  drunkard 
or  the  adulterer,  the  charge  is  made,  "  There  is  an 
accursed  thing  in  the  midst  of  thee,  0  Israel  \"  "  Thou 
canst  not  stand  before  thine  enemies,  except  ye  destroy 
the  accursed  thing  from  among  you." 

How  can  we  discover  our  curse  ?  How  can  we  rend 
this  veil  which  hides  our  sins  from  us  ? 

The  very  means  and  instrument  of  our  confusion  are 
surely  the  means  and  instrument  of  our  escape. 

This  culture,  this  intellect,  this  power  of  subtle 
analysis  which  can  break  up  so  much  in  that  present 
life  before  us,  that  once  stood  out  rough  and  distinct, 


The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement.  67 


can  also,  by  extending  our  vision  far  beyond  this  presen^ 
exhibit  the  immense  and  awful  import  of  those  minute 
differences  in  thought  and  act  which  it  has  reduced  to 
such  slight  and  momentary  bulk.  It  can  recover  for  us 
in  the  gross  that  solid  evidence,  that  sure  footing,  which 
it  seemed  to  dissipate  in  the  particular.  It  can  carry  us 
down  long  centuries  of  history,  it  can  move  us  freely 
up  and  down  huge  layers  of  social  life,  and  there  can 
manifest,  "  writ  large,"  the  steady  laws  that  are  ener- 
gizing within  our  small  and  fragmentary  existence. 
Here,  in  history,  it  offers  us  a  canon  by  which,  at  least, 
to  estimate  the  reality  and  force  of  that  which  we  are 
required  to  do.  It  may  not  answer  all  our  questions  of 
what  is  to  be  done  ;  but,  at  least,  it  will  measure  for  us 
what  has  been  the  nature  and  extent  of  the  task  which  is 
laid  on  us,  as  it  once  lay  on  our  forefathers. 

What  standard,  then,  does  the  scientific  study  of 
history  reveal  by  which  we  may  have  our  eyes  opened 
to  the  intensity  and  the  reality  of  the  eternal  judgment 
that  is  being  enacted  now  in  the  moral  9phere  of  our 
daily  life  ? 

Let  us  consider  the  change,  the  progress  with  which 
we  are  concerned,  in  which  we  are  bearing  our  part,  i.e. 
the  spiritual  advance  of  the  human  race.  What  is  this 
change  ?    How  has  it  been  accomplished  ? 

Placed  individually  in  the  presence  of  the  uncivilized 
man,  and  comparing  ourselves  with  him,  we  find  the  same 
vagueness  often  creeping  over  us,  the  same  timid  uncer- 
tainty, when  we  attempt  to  compare  ourselves  with  other 
men  in  Oxford.  He  is  shrewd,  shrewder  perhaps  than  we 
are ;  he  is  dignified,  polite  often,  eloquent  perhaps,  loyal, 


68  The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement. 


with  a  noble  simplicity,  with  a  quick  and  high  imagina- 
tion. We  are  staggered,  we  wonder  for  a  moment  where 
all  the  difference  lies;  and  indeed  it  is  hard  to  tell, 
until  we  place  this  savage  within  the  circle  of  conditions 
which  we  call  civilization.  Then  there  suddenly  reveals 
itself  a  tremendous  lack.  That  which  we  carry  easily 
and  unconcernedly  as  the  air  in  which  we  move  is  to 
him  a  frightful  nightmare,  an  impossible,  an  unintel- 
ligible burden.  The  self-restraint,  the  steady  control, 
the  unfailing  purpose,  the  large  and  delicate  discern- 
ment, which  we  exercise  almost  without  an  effort,  and  by 
which  we  manipulate  our  forces  and  maintain  our  course, 
are  out  of  his  range,  are  beyond  his  faculties.  They  are 
to  him  mysterious  powers,  before  whose  presence  he  is 
instinctively  prepared  to  bow.  Something  there  is  which 
a  white  man  holds  in  hand  and  wields  ;  something  which 
is  not  cleverness,  nor  force,  nor  courage,  for  all  these  he 
himself  possesses  ;  but  which,  whatever  it  be,  fascinates 
him,  subdues  him,  commands  him.  This  power  it  is 
which  enables  the  white  man  to  deal  with  the  infinite 
complexity  of  a  complete  society  with  ease  and  assurance, 
while  the  savage,  in  the  face  of  the  same  social  circum- 
stance, loses  his  head,  loses  his  will,  loses  his  self-control. 
He  cannot  fix  his  aims,  cannot  bend  his  energies,  cannot 
retain  his  steadiness.  He  becomes  the  careless  prey  of 
all  the  shifting  and  unruly  impulses  which  the  stern 
discipline  of  his  primitive  necessities  had  kept  under 
and  mastered.  His  simplicity  breaks  up  ;  his  vigour  dies 
down  ;  his  dignity  and  self-respect  sink  back  into  effete- 
ness.  If  he  would  save  himself  from  becoming  the  prey 
of  a  vile  sloth,  or  of  viler  vices,  he  must  fly  far  from 


The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement.  69 


this  bewildering  chaos,  which  confuses,  and  baffles,  and 
paralyzes,  and  terrifies  him.  And  not  only  when  intro- 
duced into  our  ordinary  life  does  the  savage  reveal  his 
diflerence  from  us ;  when  we  look  at  his  own  ways  and 
manners  the  same  shock  meets  us.  This  very  man,  who, 
at  first  sight,  seemed  so  like  ourselves,  so  intelligent,  so 
tender,  so  noble-minded,  shows  himself  suddenly  capable 
of  brutal  cruelties,  which  he  can  laugh  at  and  chuckle  over, 
while  our  very  blood  turns  cold  with  unspeakable  horror. 
He  can  allow  and  enjoy  customs,  low,  foul,  loathsome 
with  filth  and  impurity.  There  are  frightful  possibilities 
of  rage,  of  barbarity,  of  reckless,  extravagant  evil,  lying 
latent  there  within  him.  He  may  at  any  moment 
break  loose  from  all  restraints ;  at  any  moment  he  may 
be  whirled  by  his  passion  far  out  of  the  ken  of  our  ex- 
pectations.  Or  again,  as  we  look  still  closer  into  him,  a 
strange  incapacity  to  keep  at  a  fixed  level  begins  to  show 
itself.  He  cannot  sustain  himself  up  to  the  rigour  of  the 
demands  which  we  think  natural  between  man  and  man  : 
he  is  false,  he  fails  to  keep  his  purpose  :  he  drops  back 
so  swiftly  from  that  standard  up  to  which  our  presence 
had  drawn  him :  he  is  unsteady,  we  cannot  count  on 
him  :  the  movement  within  him  is  too  restless  and  fitful : 
and,  moreover,  below  its  changing  surface,  there  is  a 
deep-seated  content  which  we  are  powerless  to  stir,  a 
coutent  which  keeps  his  life  down  at  the  same  dead  level 
through  all  the  dragging  centuries  without  any  perma- 
nent aspiration,  without  any  laborious  curiosity,  without 
growth,  or  change,  or  novelty,  or  hope  of  better  things, 
or  sense  of  "  stepping  westward."  There  is  then  a  gap 
between  us  and  him — a  gap  not  caused  by  any  vital  differ- 


70  The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement. 


ence  of  faculties,  for  his  whole  nature  corresponds  so 
closely  to  ours  that  it  is  difficult  to  detect  at  first 
any  disunion;  but  rather  a  gap  made  evident  by  some 
difference  in  capacity  to  put  those  faculties  to  full  use, 
by  some  lack  of  scope  and  extension  in  their  exercise, 
by  a  lack  of  resolution,  of  solid  insistence,  of  steady 
grasp,  of  unswerving  will,  a  lack,  that  is,  of  all  the 
qunlities  that  could  deal  successfully  with  a  formal  and 
civilized  society.  It  is  in  all  this  that  the  change  is  felt : 
it  is  here  that  the  advance  is  made  evident :  and  history 
is  our  record  of  the  i'orces  which  it  has  taken  to  work 
that  change,  of  the  effort  which  that  advance  has  cost. 

Those  forces  have  been  terrific,  that  effort  has  been 
supreme.  The  record  points  us  back,  beyond  itself,  to 
periods  whose  meaning  we  may  read  in  the  primitive 
people  of  to-day :  periods  in  which  the  ever-shifting,  yet 
ever-unchanging  populations  of  the  nameless  days  first 
felt  the  strong  action  of  the  forces  that  were  to  fashion 
them  anew,  under  the  hand,  we  would  believe,  of  some 
remorseless  power  such  as  we  see  now  sweeping  men 
together  into  some  rough  and  ready  system  of  order  in 
Dahomey  or  Ashantee.  Tt  is  might  in  its  most  murder- 
ous aspect :  yet,  at  least,  it  arrests  that  unresting  move- 
ment under  which  the  endless  generations  of  savage 
life  gathered,  and  grouped,  and  parted  asunder,  without 
purpose  and  without  issue,  as  clouds  of  driving  sp^d 
that  rise  and  fall  in  empty  uncertitnde  under  the  barren 
breath  of  desert  winds.  Bound  up  with  this  earliest 
pressure,  there  is  slaughter,  there  are  often  fiendish  rites 
of  bloody  sacrifice ;  but  there  is  also  solidity,  and  there  is 
something  of  aspiration.    The  advance  has  begun. 


The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement.  71 


We  know  not  how  many  such  efforts  may  have  arisen, 
and  then  died  away  in  failure,  before  the  might  of  some 
prevailing  conquests  has  succeeded  in  securing  a  perma- 
nence. Only  dim  hints  and  glimpses  are  left  us  of  all 
the  loug  and  unrecorded  strife  by  which,  through  slow 
and  patient  struggles,  man  disentangled  himself  from 
the  necessities  of  the  mere  hunt  for  food,  and  found 
strength  to  spare  for  the  larger  issues,  in  which  lay  the 
beginnings  of  a  formal  society.  We  can  but  guess  at 
the  pangs  of  those  huge  births  which  set  vast  hordes  of 
men  moving  with  something  of  compactness,  something 
of  fixed  intent,  across  our  earth  from  out  of  the  dark 
heart  of  the  mysterious  East.  Only  we  are  sure  that 
such  immense  impulses  can  never  have  been  begun  or 
fulfilled  without  throes  and  agonies,  without  slaughter 
and  misery,  without  hunger  and  tears ;  and  when,  at 
last,  their  wanderings  found  a  goal,  and  they  succeeded 
in  attaining  to  what  we  should  recognise  as  a  civilization, 
how  unutterably  awful  were  their  swift  and  terrible 
failures !  Again  and  again  mankind  appears  to  have 
attained  to  social  power,  to  city  life,  to  wealth,  to  ease, 
and  then  to  have  broken  down  miserably,  helplessly 
under  the  strain  :  the  feat  was  still  beyond  the  measure 
of  his  powers,  he  could  not  sustain  the  needful,  the 
imperative  self-mastery  :  he  sank,  exhausted  by  his  own 
exertions,  into  deplorable  weakness,  he  drained  away 
his  strength  under  the  sapping  fever  of  maddening  vices, 
he  relapsed  into  a  hideous  and  sickening  corruption. 
One  such  failure  of  man's  earliest  efforts,  it  may 
be,  is  revealed  to  us,  below  layer  after  layer  of  the 
alter  lives  that  rose  up  upon  its  ashes,  in  the  burnt  and 


72  The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement. 


wasted  citadel  of  Troy;  and  another  lies  hidden,  we  know, 
under  the  dreary  darkness  of  the  Dead  Sea  waters,  while 
yet  another  had  to  perish,  root  and  branch,  under  the 
unsparing  sword  of  Israel  that  hewed  its  hosts  to  pieces, 
hip  and  thigh,  at  the  going  down  to  Bethhoron,  and  by 
the  waters  of  Meroin ;  for  God  had  looked  down  and 
seen  that  the  wickedness  of  man  was  very  great ;  and 
the  Lord  rained  upon  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  fire  from  the 
Lord  out  of  heaven ;  and  Abraham  rose  early  on  that 
morning  on  which  Lot  hasted  for  his  life  into  Zoar,  and 
behold  the  smoke  of  the  country  went  up  as  the  smoke 
of  a  furnace. 

So  enormous,  so  terrible  was  the  cost  that  had  to  be 
paid  before  the  effort  after  an  ordered  life  could  attain 
a  steady  foothold  and  secure  the  possibility  of  advance. 
It  was  done,  at  last,  in  the  realization  of  those  gigantic 
empires — Egyptian,  Assyrian,  Babylonian,  Persian — in 
which  the  far-seeing  prophets  of  Israel  recognised  the 
elements  at  last  of  a  continuous  and  unceasing  historical 
process — a  process  which  should  no  longer  die  down 
utterly  at  the  ending  of  each  separate  attempt,  but  one 
which  would  pass  on  from  one  stage  to  another, 
unexhausted  and  unshattered,  until  it  gathered  itself 
into  the  larger  fulfilment,  the  final  and  perfected  triumph 
of  the  empire  of  God.  Yet  for  the  accomplishment  and 
the  sustenance  of  this  orderly  progress  what  untiring 
struggles,  what  dauntless  energy,  what  infinite  love ! 
It  is  appalling  merely  to  let  the  imagination  faintly 
recollect  the  multitudinous  hosts  that  sweep  hither  and 
thither  in  endless  battles  across  the  scenes  of  those  old 
stories,  the  fragments  of  which  we  find  scattered  up  and 


The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement.  73 


down  the  pages  of  our  Old  Testament;  stories  in  which 
all  the  slaughters  and  destructions  of  Jerusalem  must 
have  formed  but  brief  samples  of  the  work  that  was 
continually  proceeding ;  stories  whose  frightful  vast- 
ness  still  astounds  us,  as  it  reflects  its  terror  in  the 
long  lines  carved  or  drawn  on  the  memorial  palaces  of 
Nineveh  and  Babylon.  Line  upon  line  of  soldiers 
marching  in  eternal  wars;  line  upon  line  of  captains 
pointing  ever  forward  from  their  advancing  chariots  to 
new  scenes  of  carnage ;  line  upon  line  of  captives — 
men,  women,  and  children — dragged  weeping  in  chains 
from  home  to  desolate  exile ;  line  upon  line  of 
tortured  prisoners,  of  massacred  populations,  of  sacked 
cities,  of  bloody  and  remorseless  victories.  There, 
written  in  letters  that  burn,  we  read  the  awful  record 
of  the  Titanic  forces  which  built  up  those  empires,  out 
of  which  our  own  civilization  first  established  its 
foundations,  first  achieved  its  solidity.  I  need  not 
recall  all  the  misery  and  the  pain,  the  tumult  and  the 
shouting,  the  blood,  and  fire,  and  vapour  of  smoke  that 
had  to  accompany  the  uplifting  of  all  this  old-world 
life  into  the  purer  and  freer  air  of  Greek  and  Eoman 
civilization.  The  step  up  which  the  human  spirit  then 
mounted  was  not  won,  we  know  well,  without  the 
payment  of  its  full  price ;  and  still  the  debt  was  uncan- 
celled. Still,  long  after  the  Caesars  had  ceased  from  their 
labour,  the  framework  of  Eoman  law,  so  slowly  and 
painfully  reared,  trembled  and  tottered,  threatening 
again  and  again  some  disastrous  collapse.  Still  it  was 
only  sustained  against  assault  by  dint  of  sonic  strenuous 
effort  which  mastered  the  assaulting  power,  and  subdued 


74  The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement. 


it  to  the  higher  service,  at  the  risk  of  fearful  loss,  and 
with  a  daring  disregard  of  all  that  it  might  cost.  I  can 
hut  bint  at  a  few  instances.  It  is  with  a  burden  of 
buruiliating  disgust  that  we  can  venture  to  remember 
the  unspeakable  brutalities,  the  sickening  tortures,  that 
crowd  the  annals  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  bear  witness 
to  the  severity  of  the  struggle  by  which  the  savagery 
that  found  a  vantage  for  itself  in  Teuton  feudalism  had 
to  be  tamed  into  conformity  with  the  needs  of  fixed 
justice  and  the  demands  of  the  moral  code.  Or  again, 
there  are  dark  passages  of  history  in  which  we  dimly 
perceive  through  the  darkness  the  martyrdom  of  those 
nameless  thousands,  who,  amid  the  chaos  of  the 
Renaissance,  first  asserted  the  protest  of  the  peasant 
against  his  dreary  and  forlorn  exclusion  from  those  circles 
of  public  right  and  social  life.  Once  more,  we  our- 
selves have  known,  have  almost  tasted,  the  bitterness 
of  the  fight  by  which  the  cruel  pride  and  careless 
indifference  of  dominant  classes  have  been  broken  and 
avenged,  and  by  which  the  large  freedom  and  massive 
movements  of  an  entire  humanity  have  become  at  last 
actual  possibilities,  definite  factors  of  society,  real 
elements  in  our  spiritual  growth. 

And  even  at  this  very  hour1  the  removal  of  deaden- 
ing and  unassisting  matter  from  our  civilized  life,  the 
introduction  of  new  and  capable  material,  the  extension 
of  the  sovereignty  of  social  and  moral  right  over  a 
fresh  area,  can  only  be  accomplished  at  the  old  cost 
and  with  still  unslackened  efforts,  by  the  thunder  of 
battle,  by  the  sweat,  and  the  blood,  and  the  wounds, 

1  1878. 


The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement.  75 


by  the  weeping,  the  hunger,  the  despair  of  the  widow, 
and  the  orphan,  and  the  destitute. 

Such  are  the  forces,  such  the  deeds,  which,  while 
attesting  and  measuring  the  burden  of  our  sin,  do  also 
attest  and  measure  that  pressure  and  strain  which  the 
Word  of  the  Lord  has  brought  to  bear  upon  the  spirit 
of  man,  driving,  compelling,  uplifting  him  to  stronger 
action,  to  quicker  motion,  to  wider  command. 

And  within,  the  upward  stirring  of  the  soul  to  meet 
and  grapple  with  the  force  that  bore  down  upon  him 
from  without,  has  been  not  less  vigorous  and  not  less 
intense.  Continuously,  unweariedly,  uiiflaggingly,  the 
energies  of  the  inward  man  have  pressed  forward,  have 
strained,  and  battled,  and  striven,  and  so  alone  have 
kept  themselves  level  with  their  work,  have  won  their 
way  to  the  requisite  expansion  and  power.  They  have 
made  their  effort  in-  a  thousand  strange  and  fantastic 
forms ;  but  still  the  effort  was  made,  and  by  that 
effort  the  day  was  saved.  That  upward  effort  we 
encounter  at  its  first  start,  in  the  mad  excitement  of 
devil-dancing,  in  the  phrenzy  of  Shamanism.  We 
shudder  at  its  sterner  passion  in  the  Eed  Indian 
medicine-man,  who  can  hang  by  ropes  fastened  through 
his  flesh  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  with  his  eyes  ever 
fixed  on  the  moving  glory  of  the  sunlight,  that  by 
this  masterful  exhibition  of  the  spirit's  strength  he  may 
win  control  over  the  minds  of  his  fellows.  In  all  this 
the  soul  is  alive  and  stirring.  It  is  testing  itself, 
stretching  its  wings,  feeling  after  an  increase  of  power, 
breaking  down  the  barriers  that  hinder  and  cramp  its 
freer  action.    We  find  its  handiwork,  its  method,  again 


76  The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement. 


in  finer  and  steadier  form  in  the  austere  disciplines  of 
India ;  in  the  marvellous  endurance  and  relentless 
audacity  with  which  the  fakir  can  give  his  body  over 
to  unceasing  pain,  to  unutterable  torture.  In  that  torn 
llesh  and  wasted  frame  we  surely  have  no  doubtful 
evidence  of  the  fury  with  which  the  spirit  of  man  beats 
against  the  bars  of  its  prison,  of  the  intensity  with 
which  it  pushes  its  claims  for  a  larger  field,  for  a 
fuller  vision.  Higher  still,  and  not  less  vigorous  has 
the  effort  become,  in  the  nobler  passion,  the  des- 
perate self-sacrifice  of  Sakya-Mouni.  The  standard 
of  heroic  devotion  is  fast  rising.  Buddhism  has  carried 
it  forward,  has  set  it  high.  The  spirit  begins  to  under- 
stand the  full  significance  of  its  work  :  its  ideal  has 
begun  to  disentangle  itself  from  its  early  grotesqueness  : 
it  has  gained  shape,  and  charity,  and  truth.  Yet  the 
clearness  of  the  issue  does  not  diminish  the  struggle, 
and  the  pains  of  attaining  it ;  the  cost  is  sharp  and 
severe  as  ever.  We  have  but  to  turn  to  the  language 
of  those  who  knew  clearest  of  all  ancient  peoples  the 
direction  of  man's  upward  movement,  in  order  to  esti- 
mate the  hard  and  painful  strife  through  which  alone 
the  higher  spirit  forces  its  advance.  There,  from  the 
Jews,  we  learn  that  the  tortures  of  the  flesh  with  which 
wTe  began  the  tale  of  man's  aspirations  have  not  ceased 
their  rigour  by  their  passage  upward  into  the  regions  of 
the  soul.  The  scorn,  and  hatred,  and  shame  through 
which  man's  rising  effort  after  holiness  has  to  burst 
its  way,  are  not  less  bitter  than  the  wildest  bodily 
agonies  with  which  they  mingle  their  assaults. 

"  I  am  poured  out  like  water,  and  all  my  bones  are  out 


The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement.  77 


of  joint :  my  heart  is  like  melting  wax."  "  My  strength  is 
dried  up  like  a  potsherd ;  my  tongue  cleaveth  to  my 
gums :  I  am  brought  into  the  dust  of  death."  "  The  waters 
are  come  in,  even  unto  my  soul.  I  stick  fast  in  the  deep 
mire :  I  am  come  into  deep  waters,  so  that  the  floods 
run  over  me.    I  am  weary  of  crying  ;  my  throat  is  dry : 
my  sight  faileth  me  for  waiting  so  long  upon  my  God." 
"  Thy  rebuke  hath  broken  my  heart ;  I  am  full  of  heavi- 
ness: I  looked  for  some  to  have  pity  on  me,  but 
there  was  no  man,  neither  found  I  any  to  comfort  me." 
"  There  is  no  health  in  my  flesh,  neither  is  there  any 
rest  in  my  bones."  "  My  wounds  stink,  and  are  corrupt." 
"My  loins  are  filled  with  a  sore  disease:  there  is  no 
whole  part  in  my  body.    I  am  feeble  and  sore  smitten : 
I  have  roared  for  the  very  disquietness  of  my  heart." 
"  My  heart  panteth,  my  strength  faileth  me :  the  sight 
of  mine  eyes  is  gone  from  me."    Such  are  the  voices 
sounding  through  the  storms  of  the  long  centuries  behind 
us,  telling  of  the  torments  and  of  the  pangs  under  the 
sharpness  of  which  man's  soul  has  been  quickened  into 
a  diviner  sense  of  the  worth  of  righteousness,  and  under 
the  discipline  of  which  he  has  mastered,  with  a  fuller 
consciousness,  the  power  of  that  image  of  God  that  lives 
and  is  astir  within  his  beincr. 

And  still,  as  the  standard  of  spiritual  life  rises,  it 
raises  with  it  the  measure  of  intensity  by  which  man's 
soul  must  press  forward  to  fulfil  it.  The  uplifted  cross 
towards  which  all  men  are  drawn  with  an  infinite  pas- 
sion of  desire  has  not  lowered,_but  heightened,  the  rigour 
of  the  strain,  the  austerity  of  the  struggle.  It  is  now 
no  longer,  a  wonder  or  a  puzzle,  but  it  is  the  very  mark 


78  The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement. 


of  a  chief  Apostle  of  Righteousness  that  "  he  should  be 
a  fool,  be  weak,  be  despised;  that  he  should  hunger  and 
thirst,  and  be  naked  and  buffeted,  and  have  no  certain 
home  :  be  reviled,  persecuted,  defamed,  the  filth  of  the 
world,  the  off-scouring  of  all  things  :  troubled,  distressed, 
perplexed,  cast  down,  always  bearing  in  his  body  the 
dying  of  the  Lord  Jesus  :  in  afflictions,  in  necessities,  in 
distresses,  in  stripes,  in  imprisonment,  in  tumults,  in 
labours,  in  watchings,  in  fastings,  as  dying,  as  chastened, 
as  sorrowful,  as  having  nothing."  This  is  the  discipline 
through  which  they  pass,  who  fully  know  the  meaning 
of  God's  secrets :  through  this  they  perfect  the  new 
creature.  Nor  has  humanity  been  false  to  the  standard 
given  in  Christ  and  realized  in  St.  Paul.  From  that 
hour  to  this,  its  devotion  has  been  set  in  this  high  key  ; 
its  morality  has  clung  to  this  uplifted  aim.  This  en- 
thusiasm for  righteousness  it  was,  this  burning  horror 
of  evil,  \\h:ch  threw  Augustine  down  xmder  the  fig-tree 
in  the  Lombard  garden,  when  he  "  gave  the  rein  to  his 
tears,  and  the  floods  of  his  eyes  broke  out,  God's  accept- 
able sacrifice,  and  he  cried  aloud  in  pitiable  cries, 
How  long,  0  Lord,  how  long  ?  And  he  rolled  on  the 
ground,  and  wept  in  the  bitter  contrition  of  his  soul." 
This  it  was  which  crowded  the  cells  of  Antony,  of 
Bernard,  of  Francis,  and  of  Dominic  ;  this  which  drove 
the  spirit  of  Bunyan  out  on  its  passionate  pilgrimage ; 
this  which  has  moulded  the  devotions  of  and  inspired 
the  deeds  of  countless  Christian  souls. 

But  I  do  not  want  to  stop  and  tell  what  is  familiar  to 
you  as  to  me  ;  only  I  would  insist  here  in  Oxford,  on  this 
first  Sunday  in  Lent,  by  all  the  memories  of  the  Saints  of 


The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement.  79 


God,  on  the  immense  cost,  the  appalling  severity  of  the 
effort  which  has  been  spent  on  lifting  man's  spiritual 
faculties  from  the  state  of  the  savage  to  the  condition  in 
which  we  find  them  in  ourselves  to-day.  That  difference 
when  we  stood  face  to  face  with  him  was  not  so  easy  to 
distinguish :  only  in  actions,  in  dealing  with  facts,  in 
moving  amid  the  vast  detail  of  an  ordered  civilization,  we 
found  a  lack  of  grasp  in  him,  a  lack  of  moral  steadiness, 
a  lack  of  delicate  spiritual  perception.  This  grasp,  this 
steadiness,  this  delicate  perception  is  what  we  instinc- 
tively possess,  and  we  have  won  it  at  the  cost  of  all  the 
struggle  that  I  have  described.  We  are  the  result,  the 
fruit  of  all  this  weary  toil,  this  tremendous  strain,  this 
age-long  conflic^.  Through  wars  without,  through 
tumults  within,  the  deed  has  been  done,  and  the 
fight  has  been  fought.  Still  humanity  has  pressed 
forward,  through  the  smoke,  the  ruin,  the  disaster, 
tern,  scarred,  battered,  and  bloodstained;  and  small 
and  meagre  as  the  prize  of  victory  seems  to  us,  it 
is  one  that  we  have  no  choice  but  to  accept  as 
worth  all  the  cost.  We  have  no  choice,  for  to  that 
humanity  we  already  belong,  body  and  soul.  That 
struggle  has  made  us  what  we  are ;  that  pressure  is 
behind  us  ;  that  strain  has  drawn  us  to  where  we  now 
stand ;  that  fiery  discipline,  that  passion  for  right, 
those  desperate  aspirations,  have  moulded  and  fashioned 
our  souls.  They  are  all  still  alive  without  and  within 
us :  in  them  we  are  carried  along ;  on  them  we  are  up-  - 
lifted  ;  by  them  our  whole  being  is  fostered  and  fed. 
They  have  passed  into  our  very  blood;  they  have  pene- 
trated our  every  fibre  and  nerve  ;  they  are  the  very  stuff 


So  The  Cost  of  Moral  Movement. 


of  our  lives.  And  since  it  is  the  moral  necessity  of  our 
being  that  we  should  raise  into  conscious  realization 
the  force  to  whose  secret  working  we  owe  our  creation 
and  sustenance,  it  is  therefore  our  imperative  duty  that 
we  should  enter  with  a  full  and  thorough  will  into  the 
lists  of  this  hard  fighting.  We  may  not  stand  outside; 
we  may  not  be  content  to  run  the  eyes  of  our  intel- 
ligence over  the  episodes  of  this  battle,  and  mark 
down  its  critical  moments,  and  analyze  its  issues ;  for 
that  battle  is  ours :  its  issues  are  even  now  astir  in 
our  veins  :  we  are  ourselves  implicated  in  the  agonies  of 
its  crisis.  Not  alone,  then,  may  the  intelligence  scan  the 
field,  but  the  will  must  bow  down,  and  enter  into  the 
terror  and  the  tumult  of  the  onset.  Are  we  alone  in 
Oxford  to  be  free  from  the  labour  and  the  pain  of  that 
spiritual  upheaval  by  which  the  world  has  moved  for- 
ward ?  May  we  sit  here  in  comfortable  ease,  and  suck 
dry  the  fruits  of  a  well-ordered  life,  which  the  desperate 
conflicts  of  a  thousand  generations  have  won  for  us  ? 
Surely  the  water  of  those  clear  and  delicate  habits  which 
seem  to  us  so  natural  and  so  facile  is  "  the  blood  of  men 
that  went  in  jeopardy  of  their  lives  "  long  ago,  and  we 
may  not  lightly  slake  our  thirst  with  it.  Surely  on  us, 
too,  as  literally,  as  severely  as  on  the  millions  who  toil 
and  struggle  against  the  blackness  of  evil  things  in  our 
dark  and  cruel  cities,  the  shadow  of  the  primal  curse 
has  fallen,  "  In  the  sweat  of  thy  brow  shalt  thou  eat 
bread." 


SERMON  V. 


CHRIST,  THE  JUSTIFICATION  OF  A  SUFFER- 
ING WORLD. 

"  leaning  maDc  fcnohrn  unto  us  ttjc  mustrrg  of  Itjis  bill,  accorbing  lo 
|t?is  gooU  pleasure  baljtcfj  ?f)c  rjath.  purposro  in  Jtjimsrlf:  tijat  in  tijc 
Dispensation  of  tfjc  fulnrss  of  timrs  lt?c  migljt  gatljcr  togctljrv  in  one  all 
tfjings  in  liErjrist.  En  tiiSiljom  also  toe  fjauc  obtained  an  inheritance." — 
Eph.  i.  9-1 1, 

Such  words  as  these  of  St.  Paul  spring  out  of  that 
first  bewilderment  of  joy  which  belongs  to  the  sense 
of  discovery.  Christ  is  still  a  newly  discovered  wonder, 
and  the  wonder  of  the  newness  stiR  fascinates,  still 
overwhelms.  The  secret  of  God  has  broken  out  of 
the  silence  of  the  eternal  counsels,  swift,  sudden,  and 
unforeseen.  The  night  has  fled  away  as  a  dream,  the 
sun  has  leapt  at  a  bound  into  high  heaven  :  the  mystery 
kept  hidden  from  the  foundation  of  the  world  has  in 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye  been  made  known,  and  behold 
all  things  are  become  new.  The  eyes,  so  long  sad  with 
blindness,  are,  even  in  a  moment,  gazing  on  the  things 
into  which  angels  have  desired  to  look,  the  things 
which  prophets  and  kings  have  for  age  after  age  longed 
to  see  and  have  not  seen. 

To  us  all  it  is  so  different,  to  us  all  this  new  joy  of 
the  discovery  is  so  strange,  so  unfelt.  We  have  grown 
up  all  our  lives  in  the  very  midst  of  the  revealed 

r 


82  Christ,  the  Justification 


counsel :  it  lias  been  familiar  to  us  as  air,  and  sky,  and 
trees :  we  have  breathed  it,  fed  on  it,  drunk  of  it,  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  every  year,  and  day,  and  hour : 
we  have  belonged  to  it  from  our  mother's  womb.  We 
have  never  known  what  it  is  to  live  outside  it  or  with- 
out it.  The  Christian  interpretation  of  life  has  inter- 
twined itself  with  our  very  lives.  Our  thoughts,  our 
feelings,  our  very  senses  have  long  been  moulded  by  it. 
Grace  is  our  nature,  and  this  naturalness  of  grace 
becomes  often  itself  an  argument  against  grace.  We 
seem  so  easily,  so  naturally  what  we  are,  that  we  can- 
not recognise  the  immense  effort  that  it  has  required  to 
make  us  what  we  have  become ;  and  when  once  we 
have  lost  sight  of  the  need  of  this  effort,  we  have  lost 
the  cue  to  all  the  counsels  of  God.  We  can  see  no  need 
for  this  laborious  machinery ;  no  significance  in  these 
elaborate  dogmas ;  the  whole  scheme  of  redemption 
seems  useless,  unnecessary,  too  big  for  its  work,  un- 
naturally extravagant:  and  at  last  the  birth  of  a  God- 
Man  appears  to  us  an  immense  call  upon  our  faith,  with 
but  little  meaning  to  our  experience ;  it  seems  to  have 
but  little  relation  to  fact,  to  reality,  and  so  at  last 
the  question  begins  to  creep  forward,  why  this  enor- 
mous strain  upon  our  reason,  in  order  to  accomplish  so 
little  result  ?  It  is  a  mere  dogma,  a  scheme  that  hangs 
in  the  air ;  it  has  no  foothold.  So  we  suspect,  so 
perhaps  we  begin  to  say  to  ourselves,  or  even,  some  of 
us,  aloud  to  others ;  and  therefore  it  is  most  necessary 
at  Christmas  time,  especially  now1  that  the  first  hearty 
enjoyment  of  the  happy  season  is  passing,  to  reflect 

1  Sunday  after  Christmas. 


of  a  Suffering  World. 


83 


seriously  and  with  pains  on  the  long  labour  of  the> 
centuries  behind  us,  on  the  inconceivable  effort  which 
it  has  cost  to  make  our  life  what  it  is.  For  only  if  we 
realize  this  labour  and  effort,  can  we  estimate  the  reality 
or  the  amount  of  forces  required  for  the  task  ;  and  only 
when  we  have  clone  something  to  measure  the  forces 
required,  can  we  learn  what  the  Incarnation  has  accom- 
plished, or  make  God's  scheme  intelligible. 

What,  then,  is  the  mystery  of  God's  will  in  gathering 
together  all  in  one  in  Christ  ?  Why  was  the  Incarna- 
tion the  true  and  only  secret,  the  fit  and  only  instru- 
ment ?  What  did  it  actually  do  ?  Why  was  it  such 
an  immense  relief  to  St.  Paul  ? 

Let  me  take  it  very  broadly.  What  is  the  primary  plan 
of  God,  as  we  see  it  in  Nature  ?  For  this  is  the  plan  that 
Christ  came  to  fulfil.  Science  tells  us  it  in  language  that 
astounds  us  by  its  consistency  with  what  we  look  for. 
Science  takes  to  pieces  this  fresh,  fair  world  of  ordered  and 
harmonious  life,  which  floods  us  with  the  rich  splendour 
of  its  beauty ;  it  breaks  it  up,  it  leads  us  through  the 
veil  behind  the  scenes,  and  there  we  are  stunned  and 
bewildered  as  we  gaze  on  the  endless,  infinite,  unceasing 
struggle  which  sustains  the  outer  frame  of  things :  we 
look  back  through  countless  ages,  and  listen  to  the 
rough  roaring  of  the  fiery  furnace,  out  of  whose  stormy 
chaos  the  chilled  fragments  of  harder  matter  slowly 
coalesce  :  we  are  told  that  it  is  by  the  gradual  dearth  of 
heat  that  the  colder  shell  of  the  world  grows  stiff,  by 
death  and  decay  of  its  first  life  of  fire  that  the  very 
shape  of  the  world  masses  itself  into  outline  and  sub- 
stance :  the  law  of  surrender,  of  self-sacrifice,  has  already 


84  Christ,  the  Justification 


begun  to  work.  We  are  shown  a  wild  chaos  of  heaving 
stuffs,  cracking,  tumbling,  rent,  shattered,  and  yet,  out 
of  it  all,  a  sweet  rhythm  of  order  continually  shaping 
itself,  continually  becoming  stronger  and  more  im- 
perative, even  as  valley  and  river,  mountain  and  sea, 
part  off  into  distinct  and  established  arrangement.  And 
yet  this  order  is  not  something  alien  to  the  chaotic 
matter ;  not  something  forced  upon  it  in  spite  of  it,  as 
the  old  philosophers  fancied ;  but  is  itself  the  residt  of 
the  very  same  forces  which  make  the  noise  and  turmoil 
of  the  chaos ;  the  very  principles  which  dash  the 
particles  of  our  earth  together  in  confusion,  also,  and 
at  the  same  moment,  sort,  and  select,  and  separate  them 
into  order.  The  very  law  which  shrivels  the  earth's 
surface  into  rents,  and  freezes  it  into  a  deadly  stiffness, 
so  shrivels  and  so  freezes  that  the  ordained  purpose  of 
a  habitable  world  is  fulfilled. 

Such  are  the  features  of  this  first  period.  We  look 
on  and  it  is  the  same.  For  a  thousand  ages  the  rains  and 
storms  beat  down  over  the  desolate  hills,  the  ice  grinds 
and  sends  them  to  powder ;  and,  lo  !  the  very  decay  of 
the  hills  is  itself  the  law  by  which  broad  lands  spread 
and  grow  deep  and  rich.  Or,  again,  hidden  swarms  of 
living' things  in  silent  seas  perish  for  myriads  of  genera- 
tions, and  yet  the  very  constancy,  the  very  unchange- 
ableness  of  their  waste  lays  the  even  layers  of  man's 
home.  It  is  not  that  there  is  one  law  of  death  and 
quite  another  of  life,  but  that  the  very  principle  of  death 
is  turned  into  being  the  principle  of  a  fuller  and  richer 
life.  We  look  on  to  the  animal  creation ;  still  we  meet 
the  same  awful  law  of  destruction,  of  endless  struggle. 


of  a  Suffering  World. 


85 


Strange  dragons  and  monstrous  serpents  fight,  and  rend, 
and  devour  in  dreary  marshes,  and  at  last  die  out  un- 
lamented  and  forgotten  before  the  advent  of  a  newer 
and  stronger  generation.  Vast  floods  sweep  over  the 
globe,  wiping  out  its  teeming  life  that  another  race  may 
enter  into  the  heritage :  the  whole  of  earth  and  sea  is 
full  of  deadly  hunt  and  of  cruel  capture,  of  breathless 
escape,  of  haunting  fear :  fish  follows  hard  after  fish, 
bird  flies  from  bird,  beast  preys  on  beast,  and  yet  the 
very  eagerness  of  the  hunt  itself  works  ever  new 
wonders  of  order  and  beauty :  out  of  this  very  whirl 
of  death,  still  the  higher  life  rises  and  prevails — rises 
under  the  very  pressure  of  the  need,  prevails  by  the 
very  necessities  of  weakness.  It  is  not  one  law  that 
allows  slaughter  and  another  that  produces  strength : 
not  one  law  that  says,  "  Devour,"  and  another  that  says, 
"  Be  beautiful ; "  but  out  of  the  very  conditions  of  the 
combat  arises  the  fair  glory  of  strength ;  the  very  voice 
which  ordained  the  decree  "  Be  fruitful  and  multiply  " 
seems  to  have  said  also,  "  Slay  and  eat."  I  do  not  ask 
now  by  what  act  of  evil  this  law  of  suffering  may  have 
made  itself  a  necessity.  I  only  say  that  God  has  con- 
sented to  work  out  His  scheme  in  it  and  by  it ;  and 
that,  if  so,  then  He  must  have  seen  and  prepared  some 
issue,  the  worth  of  which  would  render  all  the  means 
used  tolerable,  intelligible,  justifiable. 

We  gaze  and  wonder  at  this  terrific  process  of  creation  ; 
and  if  we  ask  in  awe  and  amazement  what  is  the 
end  of  all  this,  what  is  the  purpose  to  be  achieved, 
we  are  told  "  Many  Man  is  the  final  achievement 
in  which  all  this  preparation  issues.    Man  is  worth 


86  Christ,  the  Jtistification 

"  '  'S   ■  — 

all  this  infinite  toil,  this  age-long  effort,  this  endless 
struggle,  this  thousand-fold  death.  He  is  its  justifica- 
tion :  it  all  is  very  good  since  it  all  rises  up  into  his 
crowning  endowment.  We  turn  to  look  at  man,  then, 
man  as  this  world's  fulfilment ;  what  has  he  done  to  be 
worth  it  all  ? 

Man  offers  himself,  to  our  first  gaze,  as  did  Nature, 
robed  in  the  majesty  of  his  gifts,  rich  in  the  multi- 
tudinous array  of  his  powers.  He  has  subdued  the 
earth  ;  he  has  reaped  its  wealth ;  he  has  surrounded 
himself  with  a  fair  garden  of  fruits  and  of  flowers ; 
lie  has  reared  large  fabrics  of  law ;  he  has  guided 
and  controlled  kingdoms  into  the  sweet  and  ordered 
ways  of  peace ;  he  has  prepared  for  himself  lovely 
works  of  grace ;  he  has  won  for  himself  gold,  and 
jewels,  and  pleasant  odours,  and  all  delicious  things. 
He  has  sent  his  spirit  abroad  to  sift,  and  to  weigh,  and 
to  understand,  and  to  measure,  and  to  describe  all 
sights,  and  all  thoughts,  and  all  imaginations  :  his  handi- 
work, as  did  Nature's,  forms  a  wonderful  and  exquisite 
vision.  But  once  more  the  deeper  knowledge  lifts  the 
veil :  we  look  behind,  and  here,  as  before,  we  see  no 
rest  and  satisfaction ;  here,  as  before,  we  discover  be- 
hind the  outward  result  all  the  fearful  and  tremendous 
straining  by  which  alone  this  order  lives.  Man  has  no 
appearance  of  being  the  perfect  and  complete  crown 
of  creation ;  nay,  rather,  he  toils  and  wins  his  way 
forward  by  the  same  laborious  pains  as  the  rest  of  the 
animal  and  vegetable  worlds.  He,  too,  slowly,  blindly, 
confusedly,  struggles  forward  towards  a  goal  that  he 
knows  not  of:  by  continual  effort,  through  ruinous 


of  a  Suffering  World. 


8? 


disasters,  through  scars,  and  tumult,  and  fightings,  beat- 
ing his  way  along  against  buffeting  winds  and  swallow- 
ing waves,  in  sorrow,  sickness,  and  woe  unspeakable,  he 
wins  by  hard  degrees  the  higher  life.  Indeed,  with 
man  the  gloom  thickens  yet  deeper :  for  in  him,  first, 
we  discover  plainly  a  wilful  aggravation  of  the  perils 
and  the  pains.  He  infuses  into  his  life  wasteful  dis- 
order ;  he  spoils  and  degrades  his  power  of  movement ; 
he  struggles,  savagely,  against  the  good  of  his  fellows. 
He  creates  for  himself  a  history,  that  tells,  in  dreary 
records,  of  miserable  infamies,  and  bloody  shame. 
This  it  tells;  and  it  suggests  what  it  cannot  tell  of 
the  hundred  times  ten  thousand  who  have  fallen  in  the 
red  carnage  of  uncounted  wars,  or  have  starved  pitiably 
*  under  freezing  skies,  or  have  been  swallowed  up,  after 
wild  thirsting  for  each  other's  blood,  by  lonely  and 
remorseless  seas ;  and  still,  shudder  as  we  will  at  the 
ghastly  story,  history  compels  us  to  confess  that  even 
this  long  agony  has  been  turned  to  the  higher  use  :  out 
of  it  has  grown  an  ordered  life;  the  disobedience  itself 
has  been  made  to  do  service :  out  of  his  weakness 
man  has  been  made  strong.  These  suffering  genera- 
tions have  been  controlled  by  a  purpose  to  which  they 
were  blind ;  they  have  served  their  turn ;  they  have 
by  their  disasters  advantaged  those  who  came  after. 
Out  of  the  chaos  of  struggling  and  blinding  agony,  the 
fair  framework  of  our  everyday  present  lives  has  reared 
itself:  men  have  fought,  and  starved,  and  miserabiy 
perished,  for  ambition,  for  luxury,  for  causes  dimly 
guessed,  and  beliefs  that  could  never  be  expressed :  yet 
the  very  shock  of  their  ignorant  armies  has,  in  spite  of 


88  Christ,  the  Justification 


itself,  established  and  strengthened  the  sanctuary  of 
social  life.  So  it  has  ever  been,  so  it  is  still.  Man 
has  not  yet  entered  into  his  rest :  still  the  same  rule 
of  woe,  of  poverty,  hunger,  famine,  disease,  holds  good : 
still  our  civilization  rests  on  this  vast  under-world 
of  terrible  ruin  :  still,  alas !  it  fails  to  win  its  way 
forward  from  an  evil  state  to  a  better,  except  by  the  old 
familiar  road  of  war, — war,  with  all  its  terrific  slaughter, 
its  wounds,  sad  cries  and  groans,  its  nameless  cruelties, 
its  broken  hearts,  its  weeping  women,  its  horrible 
terror,  its  helpless,  hopeless  despair.  We  close  our  eyes : 
we  dare  not  look  into  the  awful  nightmare  of  pain  and 
loss  :  we  cry  aloud,  "  0  Lord  God  !  0  God  most  merciful, 
most  mighty  !  what  can  it  be  that  is  worth  all  this 
cost  ?  What  precious  thing  can  it  be  for  which  -such  a 
price  may  well  be  paid  V 

Many  a  nation  has  tried  to  answer  this  question.  The 
worst  have  said,  "  My  happiness  is  worth  it  all,"  and 
have  tried  to  make  the  whole  scheme  serve  their  expe- 
diency :  their  shameless  presumption  has  received  its 
answer  in  their  miserable  fall.  The  nobler  have  said, 
"  Freedom  and  law,  these  are  worth  it  all ;  to  win  them 
we  are  content  to  die."  Such  people  have  had  their 
reward ;  they  have  lifted  the  banner,  and  men  have 
borne  witness  to  its  truth  by  flocking  to  greet  it :  we 
have  all  lived  by  their  light,  but  something  still  has 
been  wanting :  man  missed  something  yet,  he  was  rest- 
less, he  overthrew  each  system  of  free  law  that  he  had 
found :  for  still  he  hungered,  still  he  dared  not  say, 
"  Here  I  may  rest,  here  in  this  my  earthly  freedom  I  am 
worth  the  woe  of  the  world."    No  ;  this  answer  has 


cf  a  Suffering  World. 


89 


never  wholly  satisfied,  never  has  fully  justified  itself; 
the  bargain  is  felt  to  be  a  bad  one,  the  price  paid  is 
extravagant.  Man  cannot  find  in  himself  the  worth  of 
all  this  age-long  sacrifice. 

One  nation  only  kept  its  head  clear,  and  seized  the 
clue.  Its  history  told  it  the  same  tale  as  other  histories : 
for  the  Old  Testament  is  no  dream  of  some  fancy  world 
that  a  God  of  our  imagining  might  have  made,  but 
is  a  real  story  of  this  very  earth  we  live  in ;  and  there- 
fore it,  too,  told  its  tale  of  murder,  of  floods  that 
destroyed,  of  generations  that  went  down  to  the  dust  of 
a  disastrous  death,  of  cities  swept  into  fearful  ruin  by 
fire  and  brimstone :  it  told  of  plagues  and  weepings, 
and  of  slaughter ;  of  armies  engulfed  in  mighty  waters ; 
of  wandering  peoples  that  leave  their  bones  to  whiten 
the  dreary  wildernesses  ;  of  wicked  populations  sunk  in 
sin  that  have  to  be  rooted  out  and  hewn  to  pieces,  man, 
and  woman,  and  child ;  of  fallen  enemies  smitten  through 
the  temples  by  the  hammer  and  the  nail ;  of  adulterous 
queens  trodden  under  the  feet  of  horses,  and  devoured 
by  the  teeth  of  dogs  ;  of  kings  slain  in  high  places  of  the 
field ;  of  people  that  fall  under  pestilence  and  famine. 
Such  was  this  nation's  history,  and  yet  it  never  became 
wholly  bewildered :  it  looked  all  the  terrific  story  in 
the  face,  and  still  proclaimed  that  God  held  its  life 
in  His  hands,  nor  had  He  ever  fainted,  nor  grown 
weary:  through  all  it  pressed  forward,  until  out  of 
the  very  midst  of  carnage  it  slowly  raised  the  ideal 
that  God  had  planted  in  its  heart, — the  temple  that 
God  had  shown  its  great  leader  in  the  Mount.  In  all 
the  disasters  it  saw  sin  punished,  and  the  right  chastened 


9o 


Christ,  the  Justification 


and  directed ;  and,  more  than  this,  it  detected  and 
announced  that  a  single  purpose  of  God  was  slowly 
being  achieved.  Nor  did  it  stop  even  there,  but,  when 
it  sadly  recognised  that  this  achievement  was  far  off 
from  the  present  generation,  nor  was  to  be  found  by 
it  in  a  present  land  of  milk  and  honey,  it  failed  not, 
but  rose  to  the  height  of  its  great  argument :  it  was 
content  to  forego  it  for  itself,  to  lie  down  and  die,  if 
only  in  the  end  this  purpose  should  be  accomplished 
in  its  children's  children  :  it  was  prepared  to  live  by 
promise,  and  not  by  right,  to  see  the  promise  afar  off :  it 
was  enough  for  it  that  the  fulfilment  would  come,  that 
all  was  working  towards  that  which  should  be,  but 
which  it  would  never  see :  God  would  bring  something 
to  pass  worth  all  the  cost :  it  would  come  :  for  He,  the 
Eternal,  could  not  fail.  Enough  for  them  that  it  should 
be  hereafter,  that  God  in  His  own  good  time  would  bring 
in  His  salvation :  enough  for  them  this  hope,  even  though 
their  holy  kingdom  was  split  into  fragments,  even 
though  the  very  fragments  were  broken  in  pieces  like  a 
potter's  vessel,  even  though  the  Egyptian,  the  Assyrian, 
the  Babylonian,  the  Greek,  the  Eoman,  swept  over  their 
desolated  fatherland,  and  defiled  the  beauty  of  their 
sanctuary.  Still,  more  confidently,  more  proudly,  more 
defiantly  than  ever,  their  prophets  proclaimed  that  the 
Lord  was  yet,  even  in  this,  working  out  His  salvation, 
was  bringing  in  His  holy  day.  Yea,  let  Rachel  refrain 
her  voice  from  weeping,  and  her  eyes  from  tears,  though 
she  gazes  on  the  slaughter  of  her  children  in  bloody 
Eamah  •  for  "  there  is  hope  in  thy  end,  saith  the 
Lord." 


of  a  Suffering  World. 


9' 


AVhat  hope  ?  What  was  this  end  ?  The  lines  of  the 
Jew's  answer  are  distinct.  Wisdom,  righteousness, 
knowledge  of  God  in  the  heart  and  in  the  head  of  man, 
this  was  most  certainly  the  end  for  which  he  hoped. 
This  would  be  the  comfort  to  Jerusalem,  this  would 
repay  her  for  all  her  pangs — "  Holiness  unto  the  Lord" 
— Spiritual  Holiness  that  knows  God,  and  lives  in  His 
image.  This,  if  this  could  be  obtained,  would  be  worth 
all  the  pains  that  had  been  paid.  To  win  this,  the  Jew 
would  be  content  to  see  Jerusalem  a  heap  of  stones,  and 
all  her  pleasant  palaces  as  ruinous  heaps :  to  win  this, 
he  could  endure  to  be  carried  away  beyond  Babylon, 
to  be  an  outcast  among  the  people,  the  off-scouring  of 
the  nations.  Let  him  only  at  last  attain  to  the  favour 
of  God,  the  light  of  His  presence,  the  delight  of  His 
peace,  and  this  would  be,  indeed,  to  give  him  double 
for  all  his  evil.  This  would  make  all  the  trouble  of  the 
captivity  but  a  very  little  thing. 

Here,  then,  is  our  guiding  clue, — the  one  nation  in 
all  the  world  which  discovered  a  permanent  purpose 
of  God  in  history ;  the  one  nation  which  succeeded  in 
finding  a  path  through  its  own  disasters,  so  that  its  own 
ruin  only  threw  into  still  clearer  light  the  principles 
of  God's  ordained  fulfilment — this  unicpue  nation  pro- 
nounced that  this  fulfilment,  this  justifying  purpose,  was 
to  be  found  in  holiness  of  spirit,  the  union  of  man  with 
God,  Whose  image  he  is.  Accept  this  as  man's  end,  and 
no  destruction  appals,  no  despair  overwhelms ;  for  this 
is  the  higher  life,  which  is  worth  all  the  deaths  that 
the  lower  can  die ;  this  is  the  new  birth,  which  would 


92 


Christ,  the  Justification 


make  all  the  anguish  of  the  travailing  he  remembered 
no  more. 

That  the  Jew  was  right,  experience  has  made  certain ; 
the  historical  facts  hear  their  unwavering  witness.  The 
Jewish  people  did  live  by  the  power  of  this  faith, 
through  such  ruin  and  peril  as  no  other  people  have 
succeeded  in  conquering  or  enduring ;  and  what  is  more, 
the  books  of  the  prophets  are  an  indisputable  proof 
that  the  clue  which  they  had  discovered  grew  steadier, 
*  clearer,  and  stronger,  the  more  bitter  and  perilous  the 
test.  By  this  testimony  of  facts,  then,  they  were  shown 
to  be  in  possession  of  the  secret  which  overcometh  the 
world,  the  secret  which  reconciles  this  carnage  with 
the  will  of  a  gracious  and  merciful  God,  Who  desire th 
njDt  that  any  should  perish. 

But  to  know  the  secret  was  one  thing,  to  achieve  its 
fulfilment  was  another.  It  was  good  to  recognise  that 
all  suffering  would  be  worth  enduring,  if,  at  last,  the 
righteousness  of  the  law  should  be  revealed  in  a  people 
in  whom  the  Lord,  the  Holy  One,  delighteth ;  but 
where  was  to  be  the  appearing  of  the  holy  people  ?  Was 
Israel,  the  chosen,  the  beloved,  was  it  able  to  achieve 
this  fulfilment  of  all  men's  labour  ?  God  is  ready;  is 
man  prepared  ?  "  Behold,  the  Lord's  hand  is  not 
shortened,"  cried  the  prophets  to  Israel,  "  but,  alas, 
your  iniquities  have  separated  between  you  and  your 
God;  your  sins  have  hid  His  face  from  you;  your 
hands  are  defiled  with  blood,  your  fingers  with  iniquity; 
your  lips  have  spoken  lies ;  none  calleth  for  justice,  nor 
any  pleadeth  for  truth." 

So  it  was.    The  one  possible  end — the  achievement 


of  a  Suffering  World. 


93 


of  holiness — was  itself  become  impossible  to  the  only 
people  who  recognised  it  as  their  end.  And  the  Lord 
saw  it,  and  it  displeased  Him  that  there  was  no  judg- 
ment ;  and  He  saw  that  there  was  no  man,  and 
wondered  that  there  was  no  intercessor.  "  Therefore 
He  Himself  put  on  righteousness  as  a  breastplate, 
and  an  helmet  of  salvation  upon  His  head,  and  was 
clad  with  zeal  as  with  a  cloak."  There,  at  last,  on 
Christmas  Day,  in  the  very  midst  of  the  toiling  genera- 
tions, on  the  blood-stained  earth,  at  the  world's  darkest 
hour,  with  trouble  behind  and  terror  before,  between 
the  sword  of  Herod  and  the  iron  heel  of  Rome,  amid 
the  oxen  that  had  perished  age  after  age  that  man 
might  be  fed,  and  the  asses  that  had  bowed  for  centuries 
to  blows  and  burdens  that  man  might  be  at  ease,  in  the 
very  flesh  that  had  for  so  long  endured  bruises  and 
stripes,  the  scourge  and  sword  and  spear,  with  the 
very  human  soul  which  had  wept  and  mourned  under 
the  chastisement  of  sin,  under  the  tyranny  of  the 
oppressor,  a  little  Babe  lay  in  the  stable  of  an  inn, 
born  of  a  pure  Virgin,  Himself  free  from  all  spot  and 
taint  of  sin,  a  beloved  Son  of  the  Most  High  and 
Holy,  Who  inhabiteth  eternity;  a  Man  after  God's  own 
heart ;  a  Man  in  whom  He  is  well  pleased ;  a  Man  who 
will  love  righteousness  and  hate  iniquity  as  no  man  has 
ever  had  the  spirit  to  love  and  hate  them  before  ;  and 
Whom  therefore  God  will  anoint  witli  the  oil  of  gladness 
above.  His  fellows;  and  in  that  anointing  of  gladness, 
that  Christ  of  holy  joy,  all  the  sorrowful  sighing  of  the 
poor  will  at  last  and  for  ever  lie  done  away. 

My  brethren,  we  announce  our  belief  in  a  great,  a 


94  Christ,  the  Justification 


tremendous  fact  at  Christmas;  but  is  it  a  little  thing 
that  the  day  demands  ?  God  incarnate  in  the  flesh  !  a 
God-Man  !  It  is  a  serious,  a  perilous  dogma  to  assert ; 
our  faith  quails  and  trembles.  But,  then,  remember 
what  it  is  which  we  assert  it  to  fulfil, — nothing  less  than 
the  justification  of  a  suffering  world.  We  say  that  we 
believe  in  a  Divine  order ;  that  life,  that  history,  are  to 
be  made  rational,  made  intelligible  in  Christ ;  and  not 
some  other  life,  some  other  history  than  what  has  been  ; 
not  some  pleasant,  easy  fairy  facts,  but  such  actual  life, 
such  actual  history,  as  is,  for  instance,  now  being  enacted 
on  the  frozen  hills  of  Kars,1  in  the  butcheries  of  Bul- 
garia, in  the  slaughters  that  have  heaped  with  the 
crowded  dead  the  passes  of  the  Balkans  and  the  fields 
of  rievna.  We  have  got  to  justify  dealings  such  as 
these  that  fill  the  long  vista  of  human  history.  We  have 
got  to  supply  ourselves  with  something  that  is  worth 
all  this,  worth  all  the  blood  that  God  has  left  men  free 
to  shed ;  worth  all  the  tears  that  God  has  had  to 
see  women  weep ;  worth  all  the  pain  that  God  has 
allowed  the  animal  creation  to  endure ;  worth  all  the 
process  of  unceasing  sacrifice  by  which  God  has  per- 
mitted this  earth,  with  all  that  is  therein,  to  rescue  itself 
from  sin,  and  rise  to  the  higher  life. 

Is  the  long  roll  of  toil  and  anguish  to  find  its  rest, 
its  satisfaction  in  man  as  he  is  1  Can  the  law  of  sacri- 
fice be  arrested  in  him  ?  Are  we,  we  civilized  English- 
men, worth  all  this  cost  ?  Can  we  offer  ourselves  to 
this  labouring,  suffering  world  as  its  rational  justifica- 
tion, as  God's  perfected  work  ?    Can  we  cry  to  the 


of  a  Suffering  World. 


95 


millions  upon  millions  who  have  perished  in  nameless 
woes,  "  Eejoice,  forget  all  the  pangs  of  your  world 
long  travail ;  for  I,  a  man,  an  educated  Englishman,  am 
born  into  the  world  ? "  Surely,  surely,  if  we  measure 
history  carefully  and  soberly,  without  Christ  there  is 
no  rational  God;  without  Christ  the  whole  fabric  of 
the  world  shatters  into  ruinous  fragments,  or  stands 
only  as  a  slaughter-house  in  which  men  tear  each 
other  down  into  unavailing  misery,  into  meaningless 
deaths. 

But  if  the  Jew  was  right,  and  Holiness  is  worth  all  the 
struggle  and  all  the  agony,  then  we,  too,  to-day,  who 
feel  the  terrible  insufficiency  of  our  own  holiness  to  repay 
God  for  all  the  ruin  of  the  Past;  we,  who  know  too 
bitterly  our  own  utter  and  foul  wickedness,  our  ugly  lusts, 
our  cruel  vanities,  our  pitiful  weakness,  our  horrible 
selfishness,  our  greed,  our  jealousy,  our  anger,  our 
impatience,  our  idleness,  our  malice,  our  unkindness, 
our  worldliness,  our  shame  and  hypocrisy  ;  we,  who  an; 
bowed  down  under  the  bondage  of  horrible  sin ;  we  can 
leap  up  into  the  vast  joy  of  belief  which  filled  the  soul 
of  St.  Paul,  as  he  saw  the  mystery  of  God's  purpose 
accomplished  in  Christ. 

The  Holiness  of  God  incarnate  in  the  flesh  of  this 
labouring  humanity,  the  holy  linage  of  God's  perfect 
righteousness  taking  upon  Himself  the  whole  agony  of 
man,  accepting  on  His  shoulders  the  burden  of  all  this 
awful  woe,  resigning  His  spotless  Spirit  to  the  grief 
of  all  this  bitter  desolation,  dying  the  death  which 
justifies  all  death,  in  that  it  turns  death  itself,  by  the 
honourable  way  of  sacrifice,  into  the  instrument  of  the 


g6  Christ,  the  Justification 


higher  inheritance,  into  the  sacrament  -of  righteous- 
ness, into  the  mystery  of  holiness,  into  the  pledge  of 
perfect  peace ;  this,  and  this  only,  makes  a  consumma- 
tion by  which  the  effort  of  God's  creation  achieves  an 
end ;  this,  and  this  only,  is  a  secret  and  a  victory 
worthy  of  the  merciful  God  in  Whom  we  trust. 

I  need  not  spend  many  words  on  the  practical  appli- 
cation of  this.  It  is  practical  enough  sometimes  just  to 
draw  out  and  study  God's  Truth ;  and  if  we  meditate 
on  it,  it  will  enforce  on  us  its  own  applications.  Only 
I  would  implore  you  to  realize  that  we  are  saved  only 
by  being  well-pleasing  to  God;  and  we  are  well-pleasing 
only  if  He  can  recognise  in  us  the  fruit  and  crown  of 
all  this  long  travailing,  the  satisfaction  of  all  this 
immense  effort  of  creation  ;  and  that  is,  the  Holiness  of 
Christ. 

Our  salvation,  then,  is  no  light,  easy  task.  Alas,  for 
those  who  think  that  a  prayer  or  two  of  their  own,  and 
a  few  good-natured  acts  of  their  own  genial  kindness, 
will  satisfy  this  terrific  demand  ! 

Alas,  for  those  who  cannot  offer  to  God  at  the  great 
1  lay  of  Decision  a  worthy  compensation  for  all  the 
iniquity,  all  the  pain,  all  the  toil  that  He  has  been 
compelled  to  allow  ! 

Alas,  for  those  who  insult  the  reason  of  God  by 
dreaming  that  a  decent  and  delicate  idleness  will  serve 
to  repay  the  cost  of  all  this  laborious  patience  ! 

Alas,  above  all,  for  those  who  complain  and  murmur 
because  the  agonies  and  weariness  of  a  thousand  gene- 
rations have  not  secured  their  easy,  pleasant  days 
without  a  loss  and  without  a  sorrow,  as  if  the  blood  and 


of  a  Suffering  World. 


97 


tears  of  millions  might  well  be  slied,  in  order  that  they 
themselves  might  enjoy  comfort  and  ease ! 

Alas,  for  those  who  trifle  frivolously  and  selfishly  in 
the  face  of  those  stern,  unchanging  laws  which,  in  the 
terrible  tumult  of  living  history,  display  before  our  eyes 
the  awful  character  of  the  crisis  in  which  we  stand. 

We  cannot  mistake  it.  The  God  before  Whose  Judg- 
ment Bar  we  look  to  appear  hereafter  is  one,  Whose 
Mercy  sees  it  possible  to  permit  all  this  horror  of  war 
and  blood,  wherewith  we  fill  His  earth,  if  only,  at  the 
last,  He  may  attain  in  us  that  which  He  desires.  So 
dear,  so  precious,  to  Him  is  the  Hope  towards  which 
He  toils. 

What,  then,  can  avail  to  please  Him,  on  that  day, 
when  He  counts  up  the  gains  of  all  His  long  husban- 
dry ?  What  can  avail  if  it  be  not  Christ  Himself, 
Christ  the  Blessed,  the  Holy,  the  Beloved,  in  Whom 
God  is  for  ever  well  pleased  ? 

O  Jesu,  in  Whom  we  all  may  be  made  desirable  ! 
0  Lord,  Redeemer  and  Saviour,  Prince  of  all  Holiness 
and  Peace!  We  have  sinned,  we  have  done  amiss, 
we  have  fallen,  we  have  gone  astray,  we  are  not  worthy 
so  much  as  to  gather  up  the  crumbs  under  the  table 
of  God  !  Enter  Thou,  therefore,  into  our  souls.  Possess 
our  spirits  with  Thy  Spirit,  our  body  with  Thy  Body, 
our  blood  with  Thy  Blood.  Feed  us  with  Thyself, 
Who  art  perfect  Righteousness.  Lay  hold  of  us  by 
Thy  Grace,  Who  art  the  Truth  and  the  Life.  Uplift  us, 
mould  us,  transform  us  by  Thy  own  power  into  Thyself, 
into  the  image  of  the  Holy  and  the  Eternal.  We  will 
shrink  from  no  suffering,  we  will  endure  all,  in  the 


gS  Christ,  the  Justification  of  a  Sttffering  World 


energy  of  Thy  broken  Body  and  outpoured  Blood, 
if  only  we  may  be  drawn  upward  into  the  Likeness 
of  Thyself,  into  the  Joy  of  Thy  Holiness!  Fill  us 
with  sorrow,  if  so  only  Thou  canst  fill  us  with  Thyself : 
for  only  by  abiding  in  Thee,  only  by  eating  Thy 
Flesh  and  drinking  Thy  Blood,  only  by  fastening  on  the 
Grace  of  Thy  perfect,  holy,  and  sufficient  Oblation,  can 
we  hope  to  pass  from  Death  into  Life,  and  to  be  raised 
up  at  the  Last  Day  from  the  lowliness  of  the  grave 
to  the  Holiness  of  Heaven ! 


SERMON  Vt. 


THE  SACRIFICE  OF  INNOCENCE. 

"  (That  £  mag  30  unto  tf}e  altar  of  ffloo,  tbtn  unto  tije  <Eod  of  mg 
jog  ano  rjlatmrss." — Ps.  xliii.  4. 

The  contemplation  of  sin,  which  has  filled  the  spare 
moments  of  Lent,1  is  drawing  fast  to  its  close  in  that 
great  act  of  death,  in  the  dark  silence  of  which  our 
Lord  Christ,  working  in  hidden  and  mysterious  ways, 
unloosed  the  bands  of  hell.  More  and  more,  as  the 
sense  of  our  vileuess  intensifies  within  us,  do  we  turn 
our  eyes  forward  to  that  uplifted  Cross ;  its  anguish,  its 
horrible  sorrow,  its  bitter  pangs,  its  appealing  patience, 
even  though  our  minds  fail  to  enter  into  the  secrecies 
of  its  justification,  yet,  at  least,  present  themselves  to 
the  instinctive  passion  of  our  hearts,  as  the  alone 
adequate  solution  of  a  world's  desperate  failure.  We  dare 
not,  perhaps,  argue  about  it ;  but  we  feel  as  we  fall  back, 
staggered  and  appalled,  from  the  study  of  that  vast  and 
ghastly  wickedness,  which  despods  all  human  life  of  its 
fairness  and  its  joy — wickedness  so  foul,  so  sickening, 
so  relentless,  so  devouring,  with  its  unutterable  pains 
and  maddening  despair,  such  wickedness  as  chokes  our 
cities  with  corruption,  and  eats  into  our  blood,  and  fills 
our  veins  with  fire,  and  drags  all  the  sweetness  of  our 

1  This  and  the  three  following  Sermons  were  given,  as  mid-day 
addresses,  during  Holy  Week  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral. 


too  The  Sacrifice  of  Innocence. 


souls  into  infamy  and  pollution — we  feel,  as  we  turn 
from  this  to  the  enduring  Cross  and  Passion  of  Christ, 
that  its  horror  is,  at  least,  on  a  level  with  that  which  it 
redeems — that  here  is  no  bathos,  no  unworthy  close. 
It  may  le  hard  to  trace  the  threads  that  bind  the 
world's  sin  to  the  world's  salvation ;  but,  at  any  rate, 
the  one  has  a  look  of  kindred  with  the  other  ;  we  pass 
easily  across  from  the  one  to  the  other  without  a  shock. 
They  touch  hands ;  a  sympathy  works  between  them 
both ;  they  seem  each  to  know  and  understand  the 
other.  The  more  intense  our  appreciation  of  the  dread- 
ful reality  of  the  sin,  the  more  assuring,  and  familiar, 
and  needful  becomes  the  vision  of  the  Crucified.  We 
may  let  our  minds  wonder,  still,  at  the  necessity  that 
decreed  the  biting  nails  and  shuddering  fear;  but  our 
hearts  feel  no  surprise.  No  :  they  demand  some  such 
end,  some  such  crowning  act ;  they  spring  to  the 
recognition  of  its  consistency  with  its  surroundings 
and  antecedents ;  they  are  even  comforted  to  acknow- 
ledge an  effect  that  is  commensurate  with  its  cause. 
Here,  they  feel,  is  no  dream,  no  mocking  vision,  coming 
with  cold  and  shadowy  comfort,  to  offer  its  misty 
thinness  for  the  food  of  a  pain-burdened  race  of  worn 
and  suffering  men.  Here,  rather,  is  a  reality,  vivid, 
actual,  solid,  with  the  vivid  solidity  of  fact.  A  wounded 
and  bleeding  humanity  knows  what  to  make  of  a  bleed- 
ing and  a  wounded  God.  God's  justification  of  Himself 
on  the  Cross  plants  itself  down  with  a  substantial  and 
undeniable  plainness,  such  as  makes  it  at  home  in  a 
world  like  ours,  where  evil  is  actually  rending  and 
tearing  the  ilesh  of  man, — a  world  where  worn  women 


The  Sacrifice  of  Innocence. 


101 


are  withering  to  death  with  hunger  in  naked  garrets, 
and  men's  lusts  are  savage,  and  their  passions  cruel, 
and  a  mob  of  devils  work  out  their  rage  with  whip,  and 
scourge,  and  sting.  "Yea,  0  my  God,  we  lay  hold  of 
Thy  Cross,  as  of  a  staff  that  can  stand  unshaken,  when 
the  floods  run  high.  The  tale  told  us  is  no  fairy  story 
of  some  far-away  land :  it  is  this  world,  and  not  another, 
— this  world  with  all  its  miseries  and  its  slaughter  and 
its  ruin, — that  Thou  hast  entered  to  redeem,  by  Thine 
Agony  and  bloody  Sweat." 

Let  us  attempt,  under  the  gathering  shadow  of  this 
most  merciful  death,  to  touch  on  some  of  the  possible 
principles  which  make  it  felt  to  be  the  one  and  only 
solution  of  man's  grief,  that  our  hearts  could  admit. 
No  such  rational  account  of  the  mysterious  efficacy  of 
the  Passion  will  ever,  perhaps,  give  the  significance  of 
the  whole ;  but,  under  the  control  of  the  Holy  Spirit, 
we  may  venture  to  take  up  this  or  that  thread  of 
thought,  and  follow  it  home  to  the  moment  when  it 
vanishes  into  the  gloom  that  shrouds  the  awful  hour 
when  the  sun  withdrew  his  light  and  there  was  dark- 
ness over  the  face  of  the  earth. 

The  Cross  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  is  no  isolated 
event ;  nor  is  it  the  first,  but  the  last  and  final 
moment  of  God's  unfolding  of  Himself.  It  closes  a 
long  drama;  it  is  the  crisis  up  to  which  whole  histories 
were  working  through  a  thousand  centuries.  .  It  cannot 
be  interpreted,  therefore,  in  and  by  itself.  It  is  by  such 
abstract  and  unreal  severance  of  the  Passion  from  all 
its  conditions  and  antecedents,  that  it  has  been  made  to 
seem  "foolishness  to  the  Greeks:"  these  antecedents, 


102 


The  Sacrifice  of  Innocence. 


these  conditions  are  its  justifying  canses ;  for  they  are 
history,  and  the  Cross  is  historical :  they  are  the  facts, 
and  it  is  to  the  facts  that  the  action  of  God  on  Calvary 
applies  itself.  To  remove  them,  therefore,  is  to  remove 
all  possibility  of  its  explanation.  Rather,  by  the  word 
of  the  Lord,  we  are  to  confess  that,  from  the  hour  of  that 
great  Sabbath  in  which  God  first  allowed  Himself  the 
joy  of  repose,  up  to  the  day  when  the  Jews  first 
determined  to  slay  Him  who  called  God  His  own 
Father, — from  end  to  end  of  that  enormous  and  pro- 
tracted development,  "  My  Father  worketh,  and  I  work." 
They  worked  unceasingly  a  work  of  which  the  Cross 
was  the  one  absolute  result :  and  only  by  following 
the  long  order  of  the  untiring  work,  can  we  ever  lay 
hold  of  the  motives  and  issues  which  make  that  C^joss 
the  clear  and  intelligible  close  of  the  Divine  ReA^elation. 

To  do  this,  now,  in  four  brief  addresses  is  impossible : 
but,  at  least,  I  may  attempt  to  recall  the  general 
premisses  which  govern  that  argument  which  concludes 
itself  in  the  Cross  of  Christ. 

What  was  it,  then,,  that  had  happened,  and  which,  in 
its  final  stage,  Christ  died  to  rectify  ? 

We  must  go  back  to  the  primary  premiss  of  all,  back 
to  that  first  Sabbath  Day  on  which  God  justified  His 
creation,  pronouncing  it  very  good :  for  it  is  this 
justification  which  was  recovered  on  the  day  when, 
once  more,,  God  looked,  and  beheld,  and  pronounced, 
"  Tnis  is  My  beloved  Son,  in  Him  I  am  well  pleased." 

God  had  created  :  He  had,  that  is,  allowed  a  Avork  to 
take  form  and  substance  away  and  apart  from  Himself : 
He  had  suffered  His  almighty  power  to  go  forth  out  of 


The  Sacrifice  of  Innocence.  103 


its  holy  and  hidden  abode  in  Himself,  and  to  become 
active,  and  strong,  and  substantial  in  the  establishment 
of  a  life  which,  however  proceeding  out  of  God,  was  yet 
other  than  God's  own,  distinct  from  God,  a  thing  to  be 
looked  at  apart  from  God.  God,  as  it  were,  would 
enjoy  the  joy  of  the  artist, — the  joy  of  standing  off  from 
the,  product  of  His  will,  the  joy  of  contemplating  from 
a  distance,  from  outside,  that  which  His  hands  had 
fashioned,  and  His  heart  conceived.  There  it  lay, 
outspread  before  His  eyes,  a  living  thing,  suspended, 
indeed  (if  you  will),  in  the  breath  of  His  eternal  will, 
as  a  feather  is  borne  in  the  moving  impulse  of  a  wind, 
but  yet,  for  all  that,  a  living  reality,  whole  and  entire, 
held  together  unto  enduring  unity  by  the  energy  of  its 
own  laws ;  no  mere  dream  which  would  vanish  as  any 
airy  phantom  of  the  imagination,  but  a  solid,  self- 
possessed,  and  actual  creature,  the  movement  of  whose 
life  shook  its  full  and  free  pulsations  along  all  the 
quivering  channels  of  its  organic  frame.  There  it  rolled 
along,  this  earth  of  ours,  before  the  unslumbering  eyes 
of  the  mighty  Watcher, — His  own  work,  His  own 
achievement,  the  expression  of  His  purpose,  the  shadow 
of  His  beauty,  the  witness  to  His  love,  having  its 
entire  consistency  in  Him,  yet  itself,  in  itself,  instinct 
with  marvellous  forces  and  powers,  which  had  passed 
into  it,  and  had  become  inherent  in  it,  and  upheld  it, 
and  embraced  it,  and  penetrated  its  recesses,  and  moved 
hither  and  thither,  creeping,  pushing,  driving,  moulding, 
quickening,  animating,  so  that  it  was  made  no  dead, 
cold,  blind  mechanism,  but  a  warm  and  breathing 
animal,  with  life  tingling  throughout  its  entire  bulk, — 


104  The  Sacrifice  of  Innocence. 


life  teeming  in  the  moving  air,  and  flying  light,  and 
ever-rolling  sea, — life  breaking  upwards  into  the  endless 
wealth  of  bud,  and  blossom,  and  flower, — life  straining 
and  outpouring  into  the  swarming  growth  of  fish  and 
hy,  and  bird, — life  gathering  together  the  full  energies  of 
its  splendid  freedom  into  the  self-directed  activities  of 
that  brave  animal  world  which  has,  at  last  in  man,  its 
crown,  possessed  itself,  so  to  speak,  of  its  own  life, — 
possessed  itself  of  flesh — flesh,  which  feels  for  itself,  and 
has  its  own  hungers,  its  own  desires,  its  own  passions, 
its  own  pains,  its  own  delights,  and  lives  its  own  life, 
making  its  own  way,  aiming  at  its  own  aims,  deliberating 
on  its  own  satisfactions,  imagining  its  own  fulfilments, 
collecting  its  own  experience,  sensitive  to  its  own 
vibrations,  fashioning  its  own  joys,  watching  its  own 
movement,  reasoning  out  its  own  conclusions,  creating 
its  own  future,  ever  severing  itself  from  its  own  past, 
and  from  all  that  pressure  that  arrives  to  it  from 
without,  ever  starting  forward  toward  new  ends  in  the 
gladness  of  fulfilling  a  self-chosen  impulse. 

Here,  then,  at  last,  is  something  like  freedom — 
something  like  a  life  that  could  distinguish  itself  from 
God. 

Creation  crowns  itself  in  man,  because,  in  man,  it 
most  nearly  attains  to  exhibiting  before  the  eyes  of  God, 
a  life  self-directed,  substantial,  positive,  real,  the  image 
of  His  own  self-government,  His  own  freedom,  His  own 
substantiality. 

But  yet,  for  all  that,  this  free,  deliberative  life  of  man 
was  only  man's  own,  in  the  same  sense,  though  in  a  nobler 
degree,  as  the  movement  of  water  downward  is  the  water's 


The  Sacrifice  of  Innocence.  105 


own.  He  is  the  highest  moment  of  physical  creation, 
the  nearest  approach  it  can  make  towards  self-existence : 
but  he  is  still  only  a  part  of  that  creation.  He  is 
as  entirely  and  completely  dependent  on  God's  sole 
sustaining  will  as  the  veriest  atom  of  blind  matter.  He 
is  no  more  his  own  than  that  atom  is.  Not  one  hair's 
breadth  more  than  it  can  he  pass  outside  the  limits 
of  that  dependence  which  is  the  essential  law  of  all 
created  things :  and  it  is  by  this  very  fact  that  he  enters 
on  his  peculiar  office  for  the  fulfilment  of  which  he 
was  made.  Creation  has  this  peculiar  charm — this  is 
its  especial  delight  before  God — that,  while  seeming  to 
live  in  and  for  itself,  it  is,  all  the  time,  only  living  in 
and  by  and  for  God.  For  this,  God  rejoices  over  it — 
it  is  His  own,  His  very  own,  even  as  it  moves  along 
in  its  own  free  gladness.  For  this — because  in  it  all 
He  sees  Himself — for  this  alone  He  pronounces  it 
"  very  good." 

Creation,  then,  enters  into  the  joy  of  God,  the  joy  of 
that  great  Sabbath,  the  joy  of  its  own  eternal  repose, 
just  according  to  its  power  of  realizing  that  all  its  lite 
is  not  its  own,  but  issues  out  of,  and  returns  into,  the 
God  in  Whom  it  for  ever  and  uninterrupkMlly  subsists. 
And  man — man  in  whom  its  self-possession,  its  self- 
movement  attains  its  supreme  movement — man  alone, 
of  all  that  vast  world  of  varied  life,  has  the  capacity  to 
supply,  to  creation,  this,  its  Sabbath-joy.  Without  him 
it  moves  along  before  the  All-seeing,  in  dumb  and 
deathlike  silence.  Noises  there  are,  but  none  that  echo 
the  voice  of  that  gladness  which  pronounces  them  all 
very  good;  eyes  and  ears  and  mouths  there  are,  but  the 


io6 


The  Sacrifice  of  Innocence. 


eyes  arc  blinded  and  the  ears  are  deafened;  they  cannot 
see  or  hear,  beyond  the  narrow  bounds  of  their  own 
small  animal  lives,  into  the  infinite  splendour  of  that 
from  which  they  came,  and  to  which  they  belong. 

Man  alone  can  speak  and  see,  can  give  sight,  and 
sound,  and  hearing  to  that  which,  without  him,  remains 
with  its  joy  unattained,  unfulfilled,  unknown.  He 
alone  is  gifted  with  the  double  character,  by  which  he 
not  only  exists,  as  creatures  exist,  with  power,  capa- 
cities, strengths,  movements  of  their  own,  but  also 
distinguishes  what  he  is,  and  whence  he  is,  and  how  he 
is,  and,  if  so,  cannot  but  distinguish  that  his  life  is  not 
his  own,  but  entirely  and  for  ever  Another's,  to  recognise 
Whom  is  his  supremest  joy.  He  alone  is  the  world's 
high  priest,  who,  made  one  with  it  by  a  like  nature,  by 
a  common  kinship,  by  closest  ties  of  creaturely  being, 
passes  up  from  and  before  the  eyes  of  that  waiting 
world,  within  the  veil,  outside  which  it  remains  bowed 
in  silent  awe,  and  in  earnest  expectation — passes  in,  and 
lip  the  steps  of  neighbourhood  to  God,  the  steps  of 
thought,  and  meditation,  and  reflection,  and  memory, 
and  fear,  and  love — until,  within  the  Holy  of  Holies 
itself,  in  the  name  of  all  God's  creatures,  he  does  the 
things  of  God,  he  swings  the  censer  of  praise,  he  carries 
the  offering,  he  stands  and  bows  himself  before  that 
high  altar,  and  ministers  the  service  of  praise  and 
thanksgiving. 

What,  then,  is  man's  offering  ?  What  his  holy 
service  ?    Surely  this,  the  offering  of  himself. 

Man  has  the  power  to  contemplate,  to  lay  hold  of 
himself:  he  looks  himself  all  over,  and  sees  himself, 


The  Sacrifice  of  Innocence.  107 


ami  all  that  he  is,  to  be  in  no  sense  his  own,  but  en- 
tirely and  altogether  a  created  thing,  existent  in  and 
by  another. 

This  created  thing,  which  is  himself,  his  whole  self, 
his  whole  body,  his  whole  passions,  his  whole  force,  his 
whole  mind,  his  whole  will,  his  whole  soul — the  whole 
of  it — he,  by  the  power  of  the  Spirit  which  is  in  him, 
can  lay  hold  of,  can  embrace  all  round,  can  take  up  in 
his  hands,  and  lift  and  raise  on  high  before  God,  and 
offer,  and  present.  He  is  himself  the  offering :  he  is, 
by  the  Divine  Spirit  in  him,  himself  the  priest. 

This  is  religion ;  this  is  its  root-life.  Eeligion  is 
man's  recognition  that  he  himself,  with  all  that  he 
possesses,  is  entirely  and  absolutely  the  possession  of 
God.  Hence  religion  is,  primarily,  an  act  of  homage,  an 
act  of  dedication,  a  sacrifice — not  of  blood,  or  agony,  or 
overwhelming  dismay,  but  the  sacrifice  of  a  delighted 
and  exultant  confession  in  the  glad  lordship  of  God — 
the  thrilling  confession  which  is  felt  stirring  half  blindly 
in  all  those  thousand  forms  of  heathen  offering,  whether 
of  fruit  or  flower  or  rice  or  bread  or  lamb,  which  startle 
us  by  their  constancy  amid  all  the  varieties  of  so  many 
heathen  faiths.  The  thought  is  obscure,  and  darkly  hid. 
Often  it  works  underground,  and  the  signs  of  its  move- 
ment are,  it  may  be,  low,  and  strange,  and  coarse,  and 
mean ;  it  manifests  itself  in  fear  rather  than  in  love ; 
in  self-will,  instead  of  in  self-abandonment.  But  it  is 
there,  and  it  prompts,  always,  the  offering  and  the 
sacrifice ;  for,  always,  the  root-spring  of  all  religion  lies 
in  the  intense  joy  of  the  discovery :  "  I  am  not  mine 
own.    I  have  nothing  of  myself.    O  my  God,  I  am 


1 08  The  Sacrifice  of  Innocence. 


altogether  Thine  !  Receive  what  is  mine,  in  symbol  of 
myself." 

AikI  observe ; 

Sacrifice,  in  this  sense,  carries  ns  back  behind  and 
beyond  all  pain,  and  sin,  and  suffering.  It  is,  in  its 
primary  premiss,  not  the  sad  means  of  recovering  a  lost 
state,  but  the  delightful  recognition  of  what  actually  is, 
and  has  never  ceased  to  be. 

It  is  the  symbolic  act  of  a  discovery ;  the  discovery 
by  the  creature  of  its  Creator.  Even  if  no  dividing  sin 
had  ever  severed  man  and  God,  still  religion  would 
consist  in  the  joy  of  self-dedication,  the  joy  of  homage, 
the  joy  of  an  offering,  the  joy  of  a  sacrifice.  There 
would  still  be  the  altar,  and  still  the  priest ;  an  altar  of 
joy,  and  gladness,  and  thanksgiving,  and  praise ;  a  High 
Priest,  royal,  enthroned,  wonderful  in  blessing,  after  the 
order  of  Melchisedec,  ever  living  and  supreme. 

So  might  man  have  continued  to  this  day,  active, 
vigorous,  enterprising,  as  we  ourselves,  yet  without  a 
lie,  without  a  lust,  without  a  crime,  without  a  doubt, 
presenting  himself,  in  perpetual  confidence,  to  proffer  to 
God  his  willing  and  natural  service. 

Is  such  sinlessness  incredible  ?  Is  it  unreal  ?  Yet 
surely  evil  is  not  our  real,  natural  life.  Surely  it  works, 
for  every  one  of  us,  as  a  vast  and  hideous  blunder.  We 
have  that  in  us,  even  now,  which  would  be  pure,  and 
upright,  and  holy,  only  that  it  has  lost  its  chance. 

Ah  !  our  lost  and  forgotten  innocence ! 

Ah  !  our  Paradise,  the  garden  of  our  irrevocable  joy ! 

How  good,  even  now,  from  amid  the  black  shadows 
of  our  pollutions,  from  amid  the  grime,  and  tilth,  and 


The  Sacrifice  of  Innocence.  109 

squalor  of  our  dreary  decay, — how  good  to  recall,  with 
tears  of  tender  remembrance,  what  faith  might  have 
been  without  a  fall !  What  worship  might  have  been 
before  a  sin!  What  the  gladness  of  God's  approach 
might  have  meant,  before  ever  we  had  had  need  to  hide 
ourselves  among  the  trees  of  the  garden  ! 

And  what  if,  as  some  suppose,  He,  the  Perfect  God 
and  Perfect  Man,  the  dear  Lord  we  love,  would  have  at 
last  entered  in  upon  that  blessed  and  sinless  human 
life,  to  make,  in  it,  the  pure  sacrifice  of  unalloyed,  un- 
checked, untainted  praise,  Himself  the  one  and  only 
Priest,  moving  to  the  altar  of  that  delightful  offering, 
without  a  wound,  without  a  pang,  without  a  tear,  with- 
out a  sorrow,  in  the  fulness  of  an  exultant  love  which 
rose  in  joy  to  meet  the  unbroken  joy  with  which  God 
for  ever  pronounced  all  to  be  very  good  ! 

0  Lord  Jesus !  Thou,  Whom  we,  by  our  sins,  have 
robbed  of  that  good  gift  of  joy,  which  might  have  been 
Thine!  Thou,  Whom  we  have  forbidden  to  partake 
of  flesh  and  blood,  except  at  the  bitter  cost  of  that 
agony  and  blood-sweat!  0  holy,  merciful,  all-forgiving 
Kedeemer,  teach  us  more  worthily  to  repent  of  the 
terror  and  horror  of  our  fall,  by  the  memory  of  that 
innocent  gladness  with  which  we  should  have  <ione  with 
Thee  to  the  altar  of  God,  to  offer  there,  no  sorrow- 
stricken,  death-stained,  sin-worn  sacrifice,  but  the  un- 
shrinking homage  ot  a  spotless  heart  1 


SERMON  vrr 

THE  SACRIFICE  OF  THE  FALLEN. 
"  aifjcn  sain  C,  3Lo,  £  come!"— Ps.  xl.  7. 

The  Cross  of  Christ  presupposes  an  original  in- 
nocence before  the  Fall :  and  we  can,  therefore,  win 
an  insight,  in  its  full  significance,  only  by  going  back 
behind  all  the  unrighteousness  which  has  spread  its 
evil  power  like  a  vast  and  devouring  disease  over  our 
earth  and  our  own  hearts,  and  by  starting  with  a  thought- 
ful recognition  of  the  conditions  which  constitute  the 
state  of  purity  in  which  the  union  between  God  and  man 
first  sealed  itself  with  joy, — a  union,  a  purity,  a  joy 
which  we  can  still,  even  though  it  be  through  tears 
of  vain  regret,  recall  and  interpret,  because  that,  even 
now,  the  conditions  of  its  innocence  lie  at  the  base 
of  all  our  being,  broken,  fragmentary,  disordered,  yet 
still  living,  still  stirred  by  old  memories  of  a  lost 
holiness,  still  sensitive  to  high  impulses,  still  mindful 
of,  still  moved  by,  the  sad  fragrance  of  happier  and 
purer  days,  those  sweet  familiarities,  that  tender  inter- 
course, when,  on  fair  cool  evenings,  God  walked  and 
spoke  with  man,  as  a  man  speaketh  with  his  friend, 
among  the  trees  of  the  garden. 

There,  far  back  in  the  depths  of  history,  in  the 
depths  of  our  own  souls,  we  seem  to  detect  a  living 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Fallen.  1 1 1 


worship  which  would  still,  even  then,  take  the  shape  of 
.sacrifice,  the  sacrifice  of  a  loyal  allegiance,  the  offer  of 
a  delighted  homage,  the  sacrifice  that  expresses  the 
simple  gladness  of  the  discovery  that  there  is  nothing 
in  us  which  is  not  God's  very  own,  our  Lord  and 
Master  and  Maker. 

Now,  that  root-idea  of  worship  remains,  from  the 
first  till  to-day,  unshaken,  unruined :  it  expresses  the 
formal  and  essential  relation  of  man  to  God,  and,  since 
the  primal  essence  of  our  humanity,  however  man  ;d, 
overclouded,  defiled,  has  retained,  through  all,  its  first 
identity,  never  wholly  divorced  from  its  first  estate,  there- 
fore, too,  the  ground  of  its  primal  attachment  to  its 
Creator  holds  on  unchanged.  Man  remains  to  this  hour 
the  one  created  being  whose  main  office  it  is  to  recognise, 
confess,  fulfil  the  allegiance  of  creation  to  its  Maker. 

Still,  then,  that  act  of  holy  homage  has  got  to  be  ren- 
dered. Still  that  altar  stands,  and  still  God  waits  for 
man's  priestly  ministry,  to  respond  to  and  return  His 
Sabbath  rejoicing.  For  God  to  miss  this  response  would 
indeed  be  to  let  failure  cancel  the  purpose  with  which 
He  fashioned  man  out  of  the  dust  of  the  earth.  Such 
failure  may  not  be.  The  act  of  homage  is  still  due, 
still  demanded,  still  imperative;  any  change  that 
events  may  carry  into  it,  cannot  abolish  the  demand; 
it  can  only  affect  the  mode  of  its  accomplishment. 

What  change,  then,  is  it  that  has  intervened?  The 
change,  the  terrible,  the  marring  change  of  sin.  The 
whisper  of  the  evil  one  has  crept  along  under  the 
leaves  of  the  garden,  as  a  wind,  witli  sudden  stealth, 
ruffles  and  discolours  the  clear  loveliness  of  sleeping 


1 1 2  The  Sacrifice  of  the  Fallen. 


waters :  the  simple  heart  of  the  woman  has  let  the 
wonder  of  curiosity  work  within  the  blood :  the  hand 
has  slid  out,  she  hardly  knows  how,  to  touch,  and  feel, 
and  take,  and  hold,  the  pleasant  dream  of  an  idle  and 
forgetful  soul :  the  lips  have  tasted,  the  evil  is  sucked  in; 
it  is  taken  into  the  veins,  and  into  the  brain;  its  subtle 
poison  has  penetrated,  with  rapid  secrecy,  into  all  the 
deep  corners  and  hidden  recesses  of  her  being;  in  a 
moment,  its  activity  has  passed  out  from  her  to  lier 
companion.  The  flame  is  alive :  it  has  got  its  hold : 
it  leaps  out  to  new  victories :  it  catches  up  all  it  can 
get  near:  its  volume  swells  and  rolls  and  roars  with 
ever-gathering  force,  with  ever-triumphant  fury :  the 
world  is  wrapped  in  the  fire  and  in  the  smoke. 

We  understand,  now,  the  depth,  the  awful  serious- 
ness of  the  change.  Sin  has  traversed  the  primal,  the 
essential  service  that  man  is  made  to  render  to  his 
God :  for  is  not  sin  just  this,  a  lack  of  loyalty,  a  failure 
in  allegiance  ?  The  heart,  whose  only  delight,  as  a 
created  thing,  was  to  know  itself  another's,  has  been 
deceived  into  deeming  its  impulses  to  be  its  own ;  its 
freedom  has  seemed  to  it  to  be,  not  what  it  actually  is, 
ireedom  to  do  freely  another's  will,  but  freedom  to 
make  a  will  and  a  way  for  itself:  its  desires,  its 
imagination,  its  curiosity — these  have  made  good  their 
claim  to  their  own  satisfaction,  instead  of  joying  to 
discover  all  their  satisfaction  in  the  satisfaction  of  Him 
Who  made  them  to  be  what  they  are,  and  in  Whom 
alone  they  possess  any  true  being. 

The  chancre,  then,  has  cut  right  into  the  heart  of 

O    9  7  D 

man's  worship:  his  homage  is  no  longer  true. 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Fallen.  1 1 3 


His  disloyalty  has  disturbed  the  direction  of  his 
desires,  the  even  flow  of  his  emotion  :  he  knows,  and 
remembers,  and  enjoys  the  memory  of,  a  counter-delight 
to  that  of  owing  his  being  wholly  to  God.  He  can 
come  no  more  to  the  altar  with  his  old  straightforward 
gladness  of  an  undivided  heart. 

Yet  the  homage  is  still  due :  God  still  looks  for  it. 
How  can  it  be  given  ? 

Let  us  think  what  sin  has  signified. 

Allegiance  to  God  is  man's  sole  life:  the  created 
lives  solely  and  entirely  in  and  by  God.  Man's 
personal  self,  with  its  personal  hungers,  and  personal 
thoughts,  no  more  belongs  to  itself,  or  exists  in  itself, 
than  a  stone  in  the  road  does.  His  very  existence 
is  only  intelligible  and  only  possible,  so  far  as  God 
exists  in  him,  and  he  in  God.  There  is  no  point  at 
which  man's  analysis  of  himself  can  stop,  and  lay  its 
finger,  and  say,  "  Here  ends  all  that  I  derive  from  God ; 
here  ends  the  Divine  assistance;  here  I  and  I  alone 
begin,  and  am."  Not  one  tiniest  atom  of  his  flesh,  not 
one  swiftest  moment  of  his  will,  can  be  wholly  severed 
off  from  God  into  self-existence.  His  whole  life,  from 
sheer  start  to  sheer  finish,  in  every  muscle,  fibre,  nerve, 
emotion,  sensation,  impression,  perception,  memory, 
thought,  will,  hope,  fear,  affection,  aspiration,  faith — 
all  collapses,  if  God  withdraws  His  hand.  Separation 
from  God,  even  the  slightest,  means,  then,  absolute  and 
entire  collapse,  and  that  is  Death. 

There  it  is  :  we  have  touched  the  great  word :  "  Death." 

Allegiance  to  Him  in  Whom  alone  we  have  any 
being — this  is  life, :  and  the  recognition  of  this,  in  acts  of 

IT 


114  The  Sacrifice  of  the  Fallen. 

loyal  homage,  is  the  perpetual  renewal  and  preservation 
of  life.  The  loss  of  loyalty,  the  fall  from  allegiance, 
the  inclination  to  live  in  self,  and  for  self,  in  self-will — 
this  is  to  lose  hold  on  life — this  is,  necessarily,  to  die. 
Death  is  the  horrible  break-up  of  all  that  makes  us 
man,  which  follows  the  loss  of  our  hold  on  God :  death 
is  the  shudder  that  shatters  our  being,  as  it  first  misses 
God.    This  is  death,  sin's  inevitable  issue. 

But  still,  I  insist,  in  spite  of  sin's  fatal  entry,  God 
demands  homage.  He  has  made  man,  that  he  may 
offer  iip  the  sacrifice  of  a  true  heart  to  Him.  He  cannot 
be  disappointed  :  His  omnipotence  is  pledged  to  the 
attainment  of  His  hope. 

Man  must  even  yet  offer  his  sacrifice — what  sacrifice 
can  it  be  ? 

The  sacrifice  can  only  be  now,  not  a  discovery,  but  a 
recovery,  of  allegiance :  and  a  recovery  of  allegiance 
must  start,  then,  not  from  the  old  primal  joyful  sense 
of  finding  oneself  in  God,  but  from  the  sad  and  ruinous 
sense  of  finding  oneself  outside  God. 

But  to  be  outside  God,  disloyal  to  God,  to  be  claim- 
ing self-existence — this  is  sheer  death :  to  start  with 
the  sense,  then,  of  severance  from  God  is  to  start  with 
a  sense  of  death. 

Man,  then,  comes  to  the  altar  of  sacrifice,  burdened 
and  crushed  with  a  bitter,  a  destroying  sense  of  death 
upon  his  soul;  and  still  God  cries  to  him,  "Bring  up 
thine  offering ;  fulfil  thy  ministry ;  testify  thy  fealty." 

What  may  he  offer  ?    "What  has  he  to  bring  ? 

Surely,  one  offering,  and  one  only, — the  offering  of 
that  very  sense  of  death,  which  loads  and  drags  down- 
ward into  ruin  all  his  life. 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Fallen.  1 1 5 


For  consider,  may  not  that  sense  of  death  itself  he 
made  the  proof  that  man  owns  himself  to  he  a  very 
untliing  outside  God  ?  In  feeling  disloyalty  to  he  a  very 
death,  he  confesses  where  his  true  allegiance  lies.  He 
finds  himself  fast  dying  down  into  hideous  corruption ; 
he  recognises,  in  this  horrible  state,  the  natural  issue 
of  a  self-willed  life :  let  him  gladly,  then,  accept  the 
issue ;  let  him  welcome  into  himself  the  very  horror 
that  devours  him ;  let  him  take  it  into  the  arms  of  his 
soul,  a"nd  lift  it  up,  in  all  its  ugly  and  disastrous 
deformity,  before  the  eyes  of  the  Most  High  !  Let  him 
cry  aloud,  "  Behold,  0  my  God,  Lord  of  the  spirits  of 
all  flesh,  Behold,  I  know  myself,  now  in  the  pangs  of 
the  death  which  has  caught  me  in  its  toils,  I  know 
myself  to  he  dead  when  I  fall  from  Thee.  I  have  tasted 
the  bitter  anguish  of  severance  from  Thy  service.  I 
feel  it  to  be  death.  I  have  endured  it,  and  confess  it  to 
be  torment;  and  now,  I  bring  before  Thee  my  accept- 
ance, my  recognition  of  this  inevitable  law.  I  lay  out, 
1  hold  up,  I  plead,  I  offer,  I  sacrifice  to  Thee  my  own 
sense  of  this  death,  my  own  intense  unutterable 
abhorrence  of  this  separation,  into  whose  unmerciful 
gulf  I  sink.  1  die,  0  God,  in  severing  myself  from 
Thy  living  name.  Yet  lo !  I  abhor  the  death  I  die. 
And  my  abhorrence  of  this  sin  in  which  I  perish,  is  the 
measure  of  my  sense  of  the  allegiance  due  to  Thee 
alone."  So  let  him  cry;  so  let  him  plead;  and  the 
offering  of  his  death  would  itself  become  a  pledge 
that  the  true  loyalty  of  heart  had  been  refound. 
Allegiance  would  be  recovered ;  the  act  of  homage 
would  be  made  once  more  complete. 


n6 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Fallen. 


But  alas  !  who  of  men  can  make  that  offering  ? 

The  allegiance  is  only  recovered  wholly  when  the 
horror  that  belongs  to  death  is  felt  entirely,  in  all  its 
awful  force,  as  the  expression  of  that  ruin  which  sever- 
ance from  God  works  in  the  soul.  Only  when  that 
separation  is  felt  to  be  the  dissolution  that  it  actually 
is,  can  the  willing  fealty  of  a  loyal  heart  be,  by  the 
ready  endurance  of  that  death,  indeed  expressed  and 
renewed. 

But  here  lies  the  crucial  difficulty. 

Such  a  resolute  and  utter  horror,  which  is  to  be  com- 
mensurate with  the  ruin  which  severance  from  God 
works  in  the  soul,  can  only  be  known  by  one  who  feels  sin 
to  be  a  very  death.  Its  touch  must  feel  to  him  as  an 
alien,  repulsive,  loathsome  thing:  its  breath  must  be 
as  the  breath  of  a  vile  and  terrible  plague.  Only  then 
could  he  plead  before  God,  as  a  pledge  of  his  continual 
loyalty,  his  dire  sense  of  what  sin  signifies. 

But  the  man  who  has  sinned,  feels  now  no  such 
horror  in  sinning:  the  sin  itself  blunts  his  sensitive- 
ness ;  his  shame  loses  its  acuteness ;  that  sin,  even 
while  he  professes  to  hate  it,  has  its  charm  for  him  :  he 
cannot  but  confess  its  delight,  even  while  he  repudiates 
it.  He  may  come  before  God,  with  the  lamb  in  his 
hands,  to  be  the  witness  of  this  confession  that  sin  is 
death :  but  his  heart  is  itself  impregnated  with  the 
poison  :  it  lusts  after  the  fleshpots  it  has  left  behind  in 
Egypt ;  its  perceptions  of  the  infinite  holiness,  of  which 
it  has  once  risked  the  loss,  are  dulled,  and  cramped ; 
its  love  for  itself,  for  its  own  desires,  carries  division, 
disruption,  into  its  offer  of  allegiance.    The  will  cannot 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Fallen. 


117 


retain  its  secure  and  unimperilled  freedom  of  choice, 
the  security  of  a  passion  that  had  never  wandered  from 
its  aim.  Its  imagination  can  no  longer  measure  the 
gulf  which  yawns  between  God  and  evil,  for  the 
vision  of  God  has  become  hazy  and  obscure,  and  the 
mists  thrown  up  by  inward  hungers  have  risen  to 
becloud  it. 

Do  we  not  know  it  ? 

This  is  no  far-off  history,  hidden  away  in  the  forgotten 
past, — no  tale,  left  to  be  pictured  out  of  dead  records, 
by  our  uncertain  and  unsteady  fancy. 

No !  Its  story,  recorded  once  for  all  in  Scripture, 
lives  its  life,  repeats  its  issues,  over  and  over  again 
in  every  soul  that  breathes  in  this  great  church  to-day. 

We  have  fallen — we  know  it — fallen  from  the  primal 
innocence,  which  might  be,  even  now,  if  our  truest  self 
but  had  the  power  to  put  out  its  life  and  assert  its 
purity  of  will.  The  sonship  of  God — which  is  in  us — 
at  times  wakes  up  and  weeps.  It  weeps  for  its  lost 
whiteness  of  will,  now  so  stained,  so  polluted — for  its 
gladness  that  leapt  up  of  old  to  greet  the  bright  glory 
of  the  near-drawing  God — its  gladness  now  so  depressed, 
and  burdened,  and  worn. 

It  weeps,  but  ah  !  who  of  us  can  now  weep  the  tears 
that  we  would  wish  to  weep !  the  tears  of  abasement, 
of  agonizing  penitence,  which  would  be  worthy  of  the 
ruin  that  has  overtaken  our  soiled  souls  !  worthy  of  the 
offence  that  we  have  flung  at  the  Most  High  and  Holy  ! 

This  is  the  very  misery  of  our  most  miserable  fall, 
that,  knowing  the  healing  and  purifying  energy  of 
penitential  sorrow,  we  yet  grope  blindly,  seeking  to 


1 1 8  The  Sacrifice  of  the  Fallen. 


obtain  a  sorrow  that  we  cannot  feel ;  we  clamour  out 
vain  words  of  appealing  grief  to  God,  and  yet  know 
them  to  be  vain — know  that  we  cannot  put  our  soul 
into  them — know  that  they  must  come  up  before  God, 
cursed  with  the  curse  of  hypocrisy. 

"  The  sacrifice  of  God  is  a  troubled  spirit ;  a  broken 
and  contrite  heart,  0  God,  Thou  wilt  not  despise." 

Yes !  but  your  and  my  spirit !  your  and  my  heart ! 
dare  we  call  them  for  one  moment  contrite  ?  Dare  we 
call  upon  God  to  witness  that  they  are  troubled  and 
broken  ? 

Our  very  words  acknowledge,  that  anything  short  of 
a  "  broken  "  heart,  God  may  well  despise.  And  yet,  a 
"  broken  heart " !  Whose  is  this  broken  heart  ?  Dare 
you  call  your  spirit  troubled,  or  your  heart  contrite — 
that  spirit,  which  moves  along  so  lightly  and  easily 
under  its  curse,  that  heart  which  is  still  pricked  by 
many  a  fond  desire,  many  a  fleshly  appetite  ?  Are  you 
the  one  to  plead  before  God  the  sacrifice  of  a  "  broken 
and  a  contrite  heart"?  Are  you?  0  my  God,  am  I  ? 
Am  I  at  all  the  one  to  cry  before  Thee,  "  Lo,  I  have 
seen  Thee  with  mine  eyes,  and  I  abhor  myself  in  dust 
and  ashes  "  ? 

Where  is  our  abhorrence?  Where  are  our  tears? 
Where  is  our  sense  of  horror  and  death  ?  Where  in 
our  faces,  or  in  our  hearts  would  God  learn,  that  we 
feel  the  loss  of  His  presence  as  a  shadow  of  great  dark- 
ness, as  a  terrible  collapse,  as  a  very  stroke  of  death  ? 

Yet,  unless  He -is  given  this,  He  wins  no  offering 
from  us.  He  receives  no  proof  of  recovered  allegiance. 
He  obtains  no  filial  response  to  His  own  infinite  joy. 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Fallen. 


1 19 


"Without  this,  man's  altar  stands  unhallowed  and 
desolate,  his  ministry  fails,  his  sacrifice  is  an  abomi- 
nation. For  if  he  knew  the  Father  as  He  is,  if  Tie  saw 
His  Majesty,  if  he  felt  the  thrill  of  His  love,  then  the 
sorrow  unto  death  would  pierce  his  soul  with  its  seven 
w  ounding  swords,  at  the  thought  of  having  ceased  to 
dedicate  Ins  being  to  his  God. 

In  vain,  in  vain  to  proffer  dead  kids  and  goats  !  In 
vain  to  leap  and  cut  ourselves  with  knives  !  In  vain, 
for  still  sin  has  taken  the  sharpness  off  the  edge  of  our 
penitence !  Deep  in  our  heart  of  hearts,  there  dogs  and 
haunts  us  the  cloying  love  of  the  very  sin  we  bewail. 
Its  memory  rises  up,  and,  fly  as  we  will,  its  memory  still 
half  fascinates;  enticing  voices  call  after  us,  clinging 
hands  are  laid  about  us,  and  we  are  half  unwilling  to 
throw  them  off.  We  may  strain  to  break  away — strain 
longing  eyes  towards  the  hope  of  God's  awful  purity — 
but  we  have  not  now  the  moral  grasp  to  hold  it  fast. 
Its  image  is  blotted,  and  confused,  and  shifting ;  it 
fades,  it  passes  away  ;  we  fall  back  powerless,  ex- 
hausted, discouraged  ;  we  cannot  see  God — we  cannot 
grieve  the  holy  grief  that  comes  only  to  the  pure  in 
heart. 

No ;  and  if  not,  then  we  have  no  offering  to  bring 
Him ;  no  sacrifice  to  lay  on  His  altar ;  no  sealing  sign 
of  fealty  to  plead.  Our  whole  service  is  impotent  and 
barren. 

Unless  it  may  be  that  there  shall  stand  one  day 
upon  our  earth  One,  clotbed  in  our  flesh,  a  man 
witli  blood,  and  bones,  and  body,  such  as  we  ourselves 
have,  a  man,  with  all  the  fulness  of  human  passion, 


I  20 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Fallen. 


and  human  imagination,  with  all  the  weakness  of 
human  ills,  and  human  losses ;  one  who  shall  yet  retain 
amid  the  pressure  and  strain  of  this  sorrowful  and 
perishing  humanity,  the  intense  whiteness  of  a  sinless 
spirit ;  such  a  one,  and  such  a  one  alone,  could  bring 
before  God  the  pure  and  perfect  offering,  the  proof  of  a 
recovered  loyalty.  Such  a  one,  seeing  as  He  would  see 
the  unveiled  holiness,  the  eternal  righteousness  of  God, 
might  indeed  be  sensitive  to  the  full  passion  of  an  over- 
whelming contrition,  might  indeed  plead  before  God  a 
heart  which  the  sight  of  what  sin  is  had  verily  broken. 

Blessed  be  the  Most  High,  such  a  one  has  come :  He 
has  been  seen  on  the  earth :  He  has  made  the  one 
offering  of  His  own  death,  in  which  the  sense  of 
penitence  found  adequate  expression,  such  as  it  could 
never  find  in  the  blood  of  bulls,  or  the  pleading  of  rains. 

"  Sacrifice  and  sin-offering  Thou  didst  not  desire. 
But  mine  ears  hast  Thou  opened.  Then  said  I,  Lu, 
1  come  !  To  do  Thy  will,  0  my  God :  yea,  Thy  law  is 
within  my  heart." 

It  was  done :  the  perfect  offering  was  completed, 
the  offering  of  a  heart  that  could  not  but  break,  if  God 
for  one  moment  abandoned  it,  so  bitter,  so  mortal 
would  be  the  anguish  of  its  unblemished  will. 

It  was  done,  on  that  Good  Friday — on  which,  out  of 
the  blackness  of  the  sun's  withdrawal,  from  out  of  the 
abyss  of  an  overwhelming  desolation,  there  fell  on 
man's  shuddering  ears,  the  loud  and  exceeding  bitter 
cry,  "  My  God,  My  God,  why  hast  Thou  forsaken  Me?" 


SERAI  ON  VIII. 


THE  SACRIFICE  OF  THE  MAN. 

"  3  botig  fjast  2Tfjou  prepare!)  me."— Heb.  x.  5. 
"93g  the  fahtch  bill  She  are  sanctiKco  trjraugb  %  offering  of  tfje  boUg 
of  3rsus  Christ."— Heb.  x.  10. 

"  My  God,  My  God,  why  hast  Thou  forsaken  Me  ?"  In 
that  bitter  cry,  lay  the  secret  of  redemption.  In 
itself  apparently  the  voice  of  unfathomable  despair, 
it  is,  if  we  look  at  it  closer,  the  utterance  of  an  un- 
quenchable hope.  If  any  human  heart  could  once  feel 
that  to  be  forsaken  of  God  was  an  unendurable  despair, 
was  an  agony  bitter  and  fierce  as  death  itself,  then  that 
heart,  that  broken  heart,  knows  full  surely  what  that 
God  is,  at  losing  Whom  it  so  terribly  despairs.  Sin 
renders  us  unsensitive  to  the  mortal  agony  of  such  a 
regret:  each  increase  of  sin  increases  our  callousness, 
our  repulsion  to  God,  our  dislike  of  holiness.  Only  the 
sinless  heart  would  break  in  twain  for  grief  at  God's 
forsaking. 

Such  a  despair,  then,  if  I  may  venture  to  call  it 
despair,  is  indeed  no  despair.  The  soul  could  not  so 
despair,  if  it  were  not  so  loyal-hearted ;  and,  therefore, 
the  despair  of  that  bitter  penitential  cry  loses  its  tor- 
ment, loses  all  its  hopelessness  ;  it  changes  its  character, 
it  is  transfigured;  its  very  loudness  penetrates  the  ears 
of  God  as  an  appeal,  the  appeal  of  a  fealty  which  is  so 


1 2  2  The  Sacrifice  of  the  Man. 


unswerving,  and  invincible,  and  true,  that  it  would  feel 
any  severance  of  its  bond  to  be  the  very  torture  of  death. 
Such  an  appeal  witnesses  that  any  such  severance  is 
for  ever  an  impossibility  to  a  soul  so  intimately  con- 
scious of  what  severance  would  involve.  Such  an  appeal, 
then,  is  in  God's  ears  the  pledge  of  perfect  homage,  the 
recovery  of  a  renewed  allegiance,  by  a  humanity  which, 
since  it  had  once  fallen  into  disloyalty,  could  only 
recover  itself  through  a  recognition,  that  it  felt  such 
disloyalty  to  be  its  ruin,  its  despair. 

In  that  bitter  cry,  the  sacrifice  that  man  has  to  offer 
is  once  more  renewed.  That  Cross  has  become  his  altar. 
The  communion  of  the  creature  with  the  Creator  is  once 
again  recovered ;  the  joy  of  the  Creator  in  a  loyal  and 
true-hearted  creation,  renews  itself  into  its  old  Sabbath 
gladness,  the  gladness  of  a  God  who  can  repose,  since 
the  crown  of  His  labour  is  achieved.  Worship  has 
begun  anew  :  the  victim  is  there  to  make  victorious 
appeal ;  the  priest  is  there,  lifting  once  more  holy  hands. 
The  incense  of  praise  and  thanksgiving  once  again 
ascends  as  of  old.  The  temple  of  God  is  filled  with  the 
smoke,  and  shakes  with  the  tremendous  Presence,  as 
once  more  the  voice  of  man  goes  up  to  mingle  with  the 
cry  of  the  seraphim,  "  Holy,  holy,  holy,  Lord  God  of 
Hosts  !  Earth  as  well  as  Heaven  is  full  of  Thy  glory. 
Glory  be  to  Thee,  0  Lord  most  High." 

Let  us  venture  to  contemplate  still  nearer  the  nature 
of  this  our  recovered  sacrifice :  by  doing  so,  I  think  we 
may  realize  that  it  is  no  abstract  theological  dogma,  but 
is  endued  with  that  real  actuality  which  fits  it  to  be- 
come :  factor,  a  power,  in  a  world  of  flesh  and  blood. 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Man. 


123 


For  consider  how  the  offering  of  a  freewill  was  made  : 
it  was  an  actual  physical  death;  and  we  know  how 
startlingly  vivid  is  the  identification  by  St.  Paul,  nay,  by 
our  Lord,  of  the  moral  with  the  physical  death, — "  He 
who  loses  his  life  for  My  sake  shall  find  it.  Unless  ye 
eat  My  flesh,  ye  shall  die."  "  Dead  with  Christ."  Who 
can  trace  any  dividing  line  that  keeps  asunder  the  twin 
conceptions  ?  The  death  of  the  body  is  the  death  to  the 
body ;  no  analysis  can  keep  them  finally  apart.  And 
so,  too,  the  cry  of  the  bereaved  heart  against  that  deadly 
abandonment  of  God  is  no  mere  spiritual  act ;  it  issues 
out  of,  it  takes  effect  in,  an  actual  perishing  of  the  flesh. 

How  is  this  ?  In  attempting  to  account  for  it,  for- 
give me  if  I  once  more  recall  the  conditions  of  man's 
allegiance. 

He  was  possessed  of  a  double  character :  on  the  one 
hand,  he  was  a  mere  creature,  a  created  thing,  a  bit  of 
this  visible  creation,  a  complicated  living  organism, 
moving  on  its  own  lines,  endowed  with  its  own  capa- 
cities ;  an  embodiment  of  a  certain  fixed  quantum  of 
force,  which  God  has,  as  it  were,  detached  from  Himself, 
and  set  moving,  and  supplied  with  energy,  and  con- 
tinuance, and  substantiality,  to  go  its  own  way,  under 
the  control  and  limitation  of  its  own  laws  and  conditions. 
So  far  he  was  simply  the  subtlest  and  most  elaborate 
instance  of  that  delight  which  had  moved  God  to  allow 
creation  to  assume  the  character  of  a  real  self-supporting 
existence,  the  image  of  that  absolute  self- sustenance 
which  constitutes  His  everlasting  joy. 

On  the  other  hand,  man  was  more  than  the  mere 
creature:  he  had  the  additional  gift  of  a  spiritual  capa- 


1 24  The  Sacrifice  of  the  Man. 


city  which  could  outstep  its  creaturely  existence,  could 
look  it  all  round,  take  the  measure  of  it ;  could  recognise 
the  unreality  of  that  seeming  self-existence,  and  in  the 
might  of  that  recognition  could  discover  the  God  in 
Whom  alone  lay  its  right  and  its  strength  to  exist  at 
all ;  could  look  up  to  Him  with  joy,  acknowledging  its 
entire  dependence,  its  entire  dedication  to  His  sustaining 
and  sanctioning  energy.  So,  as  a  spiritual  priest,  he 
offered  himself  and  all  creation,  a  glad  and  ready  sacra- 
fice,  to  God :  and,  in  that  worship,  found  his  life. 

Now,  what  is  that  which  would  be  the  due  material 
for  an  offering  made  under  such  conditions  ?  Is  it  not 
the  flesh,  the  body  ?  He  is  to  offer  to  God  his  whole 
creaturely  existence,  all  the  powers  that  belong  to  him 
as  a  created  thing ;  and  the  body — what  is  it  but  the 
organ  and  instrument  and  seal  of  all  those  living  powers  ? 
The  body  is  that  particular  portion  of  the  earth's  sub- 
stance which  man's  spirit  takes,  and  inhabits,  and 
possesses,  and  indwells :  in  the  body  he  plays  his  part, 
as  a  creature  in  the  midst  of  a  creation  ;  through  it,  he 
belongs  to  earth,  he  deals  with  earth,  he  communicates 
with  earth,  he  experiences  earth.  In  it  and  by  it;  he 
possesses,  he  creates  for  himself,  a  solid  and  substantial 
life.  Only  through  its  quivering  cords  does  he  himself 
win  his  way  to  sensation,  or  movement ;  only  in  its  fine 
and  free  activities  does  he  himself  become  conscious  of 
emotion,  or  desire,  or  joy ;  only  through  its  delicate 
ministries  and  responsive  service  do  his  powers  wake 
up  from  sleep,  and  obtain  the  delight  of  life,  and  motion, 
and  display. 

In  his  body,  then,  he  knows  himself  alive:  by  his 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Man.  1 25 

body,  he  achieves  such  self-existence,  such  self-manifes- 
tation as  belongs  to  his  created  nature. 

But  this  apparent  self-existence,  this  seeming  power 
of  self-manifestation,  is  just  what  he  is  enabled  by  his 
spirit  to  recognise  as  due  to  God,  due  to  Him  for  all  that 
it  is,  due  to  be  dedicated  to  Him,  due  to  make  the  one 
offering  which  he,  the  priest,  has  got  to  present  on  God's 
high  altar. 

The  body,  then,  which  is  the  instrument  of  his  self- 
manifestation,  is  the  due  and  proper  instrument,  also,  of 
his  self-sacrifice.  It  is  the  body,  it  is  the  full,  mani- 
fested life  of  the  creature,  the  organ  of  all  its  motions, 
affections,  perceptions,  intuitions,  pleasures,  needs, 
fancies,  delights — it  is  himself  as  alive  in  the  body, 
which  he  may  lift  in  his  hands,  in  glad  discovery,  to 
recognise  and  confess  in  it,  his  own  entire  consecration 
to  his  Maker. 

And  how  when  that  primal  allegiance  has  been  lost  ? 
How  was  it  lost  ? 

Was  not  the  body,  that  ministrant  of  creaturely 
life,  just  that  which  made  man's  inherent  life  seem  to 
him  so  real,  so  intensely  personal,  so  entirely  his  very 
own?  In  his  flesh  it  was  that  he  felt  himself  alive ; 
that  he  knew  what  it  was  to  enjoy,  to  feel,  to  move : 
through  it,  he  could  gain  for  himself  pleasures ;  through 
it,  he  could  feed  his  passions;  in  it  he  seemed  most 
genuinely  to  possess  something  which  he  might  use  for 
his  own  purposes,  put  to  serve  his  own  needs,  adapt  to 
his  own  interests,  make  minister  to  his  own  imaginations 
and  lusts. 

The  body,  then,  is  that  piece  of  nature  which  a  man 


1 26  The  Sacrifice  of  the  Man. 


occupies,  and  controls,  and  directs ;  his  possession,  his 
dwelling,  his  dominion  ;  that  private  portion  and  lot  set 
apart  for  him  to  do  with  as  he  will,  that  heritage 
allotted  him  by  his  Father :  the  body  is  the  scene,  and 
organ,  and  tool  of  man's  peculiar  temptation,  the  temp- 
tation to  consider  this  creaturely  life  intrusted  to  him, 
to  be  his  very  own,  to  be  used  as  he  chooses,  for  his  own 
delight.  It  is  upon  the  body  that  man's  eyes  first  fall 
as  they  look  down  from  God  to  earth,  and  ask  whence 
man  may  invent  for  himself  pleasures. 

And  observe ;  the  sinfulness  hidden  in  man's  secret 
will  does  not  know  itself,  does  not  show  itself,  has  not 
yet  sinned  its  life  away,  until  it  has  leapt  out  of  its 
secrecy,  and  has  moved  the  body  into  rebellious  action. 
Man's  will  had  only  then  committed  the  full  sin,  when 
the  hand  had  been  put  out  to  take,  and  the  mouth  had 
tasted  and  enjoyed.  For  sin  is  an  act :  and  the  body 
is  the  organ  of  action. 

Yes,  and  sacrifice.  Sacrifice,  also,  is  an  act ;  and  the 
body,  the  organ  of  all  action,  is  the  organ  not  only  of 
sin,  but  also  of  sacrifice.  God  asked  of  man  an  act,  a 
self-dedication,  a  dedication  to  be  accomplished,  therefore, 
in  and  with  the  body.  And  man,  in  spoiling  and 
sullying,  by  selfish  uses,  the  organ  of  activity,  had, 
therefore,  spoiled  and  sullied  the  instrument  and  fuel  of 
his  sacrifice,  the  sole  material  in  which  to  render  up  the 
act  of  his  offering.  He  had  no  pure  offering  any  more 
which  his  will  could  carry  in  within  the  holy  places. 
It  is  blood,  with  which  the  ministry  of  sanctification,  of 
remission,  is  accomplished :  it  is  blood,  the  life  in  the 
flesh,  with  which  all  the  tabernacle  of  grace  is  to  be 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Man. 


127 


sprinkled  and  purged.  But  in  man's  blood,  now,  hot 
fevers  work,  fierce  passions  run  riot,  angry  lusts  are 
stirring:  lie  dare  not  carry  and  offer  such  wild  blood  as 
that,  in  within  the  cool  quiet  of  the  Holy  of  Holies. 

And  yet  worse :  in  laying  hold  of  the  body  for  his 
private  gratification  and  prize,  man  had  not  only  fallen 
from  loyalty,  and  sullied  his  sole  offering,  but  what  was 
the  penalty,  the  necessary  result  of  such  spiritual  sever- 
ance from  God  ? 

Death  :  utter,  ruinous  death. 

And  how  does  that  penal  death  touch  the  deathless 
spirit  in  man  ?  How  can  it  ever  lay  its  loathsome 
fingers  on  that  which  is  beyond  its  cruel  clutch  ? 

Nay,  not  entirely  beyond  ! 

That  high  spirit  is  netted  into  the  delicate  meshes  of 
all-penetrative  flesh ;  that  flesh  is  the  sole  organ  of  all 
the  spirit's  feelings,  passions,  delights ;  and  to  that  flesh 
it  has  turned  as  to  its  pleasure-house,  to  seek  in  the 
opportunities  of  the  body,  its  joys,  its  desires. 

How  disastrous,  how  fatal  a  blunder  ! 

"  The  wicked  is  trapped  in  the  pit  that  he  hath  dug ; 
in  the  net,  that  he  set,  is  his  foot  taken."  He  has 
turned  to  the  body  to  satisfy  his  lusts,  and  just  through 
that  body  can  death,  the  penal  issue  of  lust,  get  at  him; 
just  through  it  can  its  foul  working  reach,  and  touch, 
and  defile  that  which  otherwise  were  beyond  its  grasp. 
Death  operates  upon  his  spirit  through  the  body.  The 
body  is  that  which  must  be  upheld  by  the  continual  in- 
breathing of  God,  or  else  it  would  sink  into  ruin,  into 
corruption,  into  the  jaws  of  hell :  and,  lo !  man;  by  the 
very  act  of  turning  to  the  body,  has  withdrawn  from  him 


128  The  Sacrifice  of  the  Man. 


and  it  that  essential  inbreathing  of  God :  the  soul  has 
ceased  to  draw  in  renewing  supplies  from  God,  and  has 
identified  its  interests  with  those  of  the  perishing  flesh : 
and  therefore,  by  that  very  act  by  which  it  spiritually 
died  to  God,  it  finds  itself  caught,  tangled,  snared  in  the 
horrible,  clinging  corruption  and  death  of  that  body  in 
which  it  sought  its  delight. 

The  wages  of  sin  is  death  :  and  now  those  wages  can 
be  paid  in  full.  For  the  spirit  cannot  attain  the  life, 
which  belongs  to  it,  except  through  that  organ  by 
which  it  lives :  and  that  organ  is  now  dying.  Man's 
sin,  in  implicating  him  so  fatally  with  the  body,  has 
made  the  payment  of  death  possible.  That  death  which 
he  has  died  to  God,  can  be  paid  out  to  him  in  the  very 
coin  in  which  he  incurred  it.  It  is  paid  out  to  his 
sinning  spirit  by  virtue  of  its  self-chosen  implication  in 
the  ruin  of  the  perishing  flesh.  There  in  the  physical 
dissolution  of  its  home  and  fabric,  it  reads,  it  feels,  it  is 
penetrated  by,  the  sentence  of  its  own  helpless,  hope- 
less fall  out  of  life.  The  terrible  collapse,  the  sickening 
horror  of  annihilation,  the  fearful  sobs  of  an  ebbing  life, 
the  torment  and  agony  of  God-abandonment, — these 
which  eat  into  the  soul  through  the  channels  of  a  decay- 
ing and  collapsing  body,  are  then  known  by  it  to  be  its 
very  own  :  they  impress  upon  it,  with  scathing  letters  of 
flame,  its  own  inevitable  doom :  as  it  sinks  into  that 
devouring  gulf  which  consumes  its  flesh,  it  can  foresee 
for  itself  nothing  but  a  death  that  yet,  for  it,  can  never 
reach  that  annihilation  which  is  the  refuge  of  the  bodily 
frame ;  a  death,  then,  which  never  ceases  to  be  the 
death  which  now  it  experiences ;  a  worm  that  gnaws, 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Man. 


1 29 


and  never  dies ;  a  fire  that  consumes,  and  is  never 
quenched  ;  a  torment  of  corruption,  which  has  no  need 
to  reach  a  limit  and  have  done. 

The  body,  then,  which  we  found  to  be  the  due  instru- 
ment of  sacrifice,  and  the  due  material  and  scene  of 
man's  temptation,  is  become,  too,  the  instrument  of  his 
punishment,  the  scourge  of  his  sin,  the  organ  and 
material  of  death. 

And  now,  how  Will  that  offering  be  renewed  ? 

How  will  allegiance  be  fitly  recovered  ? 

It  was  to  be  renewed  when  man  could  re-dedicate,  in 
proof  of  recovered  loyalty,  that  very  torment  which  he 
suffered  in  penalty  for  sin,  the  torment  of  that  very  death 
which,  through  the  body,  penetrates  into,  and  massacres, 
the  spiritual  life  itself,  which  may  not  wholly  die. 

That  pure  and  stainless  will,  then,  in  which  man  is  to 
renew  his  offering,  must  experience  that  utter  sense  of 
collapse  which  touches  the  sinning  spirit  through  the 
perishing  fabric  of  its  flesh :  it  must  know  it,  as  man 
knows  it,  in  the  actual  pangs  of  a  bodily  death.  It  is 
in  these  pangs  that  man's  fall  is  made  actual,  made  in- 
telligible to  him  :  in  these  it  is  that  he  definitely  knows 
what  it  is  to  be  forsaken  of  God ;  and,  therefore,  it  is 
just  this  sensible  experience,  known  in  physical  sick- 
ness and  death,  of  his  utter  and  torturing  failure,  which 
he  is  to  plead  before  God,  in  token  of  his  re-recognised 
allegiance.  He  is  to  die  to  that  death  in  which  he  finds 
himself  implicated,  by  offering  back  to  God  that  veri- 
table agony  which,  by  means  of  his  attachment  to  flesh, 
does  actually  lay  hold  of  him,  and  make  him  sensitive 
to  its  bitterness. 

I 


130 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Man. 


It  is  in  the  death-pangs  of  the  body,  therefore,  that 
he  finds  the  material  of  the  renewed  sacrifice ;  in  them 
he  discovers  that  peculiar  act  of  re-dedication  which  will 
fitly  and  exactly  cancel  the  act  of  his  rebellion.  It  is 
these  he  should  offer ;  it  is  these  he  should  plead. 

And  now  see  what  follows.  These  very  death-pangs 
which  he  confesses,  by  that  offering  of  a  perfect  will,  to 
be  the  due  issue  of  sin,  its  bitter  punishment,  its  cruel 
and  crushing  and  inevitable  rebuke,— these  become  to 
Him  Who,  in  the  might  of  His  sinlessness,  can  make 
them  the  instruments  of  His  worthy  confession,  of  His 
sufficing  penitence,  no  longer  what  they  would  be  in 
any  other,  no  longer  the  expressions  of  God's  wrath,  the 
torment  of  despair,  the  merited  pangs  of  remorse.  No ; 
Christ,  our  true  Lord,  was  never  tormented,  never 
punished,  as  He  thirsted  with  hot  agony  on  the  shameful 
Cross.  God  forbid !  No ;  the  very  nature  of  those 
horrible  pangs  is  changed  as  they  touch  that  spotless 
and  transforming  innocence :  they  are  changed  wholly 
and  altogether,  from  symbols  of  wrath  into  symbols  of 
praise,  as  the  most  holy  will  bows  itself  to  accept  their 
awful  fury,  their  desolating  anguish,  taking  them  into 
itself  in  unfaltering  submission,  as  that  which,  with  all 
their  horror,  it  yet  confesses  to  be  far  short  of  that 
horrible  woe  which  it  would  be  ever  to  swerve  and  fall 
from  perfect  loyalty  to  God.  Yes ;  Christ's  sacred 
courage  will  go  right  through  with  its  task.  He  takes 
upon  Him  our  flesh :  that  flesh  which  had  been  our 
ruin  through  its  enticing  pleasures,  shall  be  turned  to 
our  salvation  by  its  pains.  Through  the  body  we  had 
known  pleasure,  and  had  laid  greedy  hands  upon  it,  to 
feed  -our  hlsfcs  with  its  delights.    Through  the  body. 


Tlic  Sacrifice  of  the  Man.  1 3 1 

now,  we  know  what  pain  is;  in  the  body's  ruin  we 
know  now  what  the  curse  of  death  signifies.  It  is  this 
bodily  pain,  then,  this  bodily  death,  which  He,  our 
Lord,  will  endure,  that  those  very  pains  which  now 
devour  us  with  a  sense  of  their  justice  may  become  the 
fuel  of  sacrifice,  the  proof  of  fealty,  the  tokens  of  victory, 
the  symbols  of  our  repose  in  God,  the  holy  sacraments 
of  a  restored  communion,  of  a  recovered  worship,  of  an 
unending  thanksgiving. 

So  no  purpose  of  the  Most  High  has  failed.  The 
body  is,  once  more,  the  instrument  of  praise.  That 
which  was  the  fuel  of  wrath  is  itself — that  very  body, 
and  no  other — transformed  into  the  fuel  of  love. 

"A  body  hast  thou  prepared  me  I" 

"  A  body  " — that  very  body,  which  we  had  dragged 
over  the  rough  ways,  and  torn  with  the  bitter  thorns,  of 
sin :  that  worn,  wasted,  beaten,  battered,  mangled, 
wearied  body  which  we  had  filled  with  racking  ills,  and 
aches,  and  diseases ;  that  very  body  in  which  pain  and 
torture  and  death  still  in  us  to-day  hold  abode,  and 
work  their  terrible  will,  in  the  free  security  that  our 
fleshly  lusts  have  allowed  them :  that  poor,  miserable, 
sickened,  ruinous,  perishing  body  He,  the  Pure  and 
Holy,  has  entered  ;  He  has  taken  it,  that  He  may  make 
His  very  own  all  the  agonies  to  which  that  flesh  is  heir; 
that  in  it  He  may  be  bruised  for  our  offences,  wounded 
for  our  iniquities,  scourged  for  our  healing ;  that  He, 
too,  may  know  what  it  is  we  suffer  when  the  mouth  is 
dry,  and  the  lips  parched,  "  and  the  tongue  cleaveth  to 
the  gums  :  when  the  bones  are  burnt  up  as  with  a  fire- 
brand; and  the  heart  is  smitten  down,  and  withered 
like  grass  :  when  wounds  stink  and  are  corrupt,  and  the 


1 32  The  Sacrifice  of  the  Man. 


loins  are  filled  with  a  sore  disease  and  there  is  no  whole 
part  in  the  body — whentheheartpanteth.and  the  strength 
faileth,  and  the  sight  of  the  eyes  is  gone  from  ns." 

That  is  what  He  would  feel :  this  is  what  He  took 
upon  Himself,  as  He  nailed  that  prepared  body  to  the 
tree :  and  all  this,  felt  in  its  full  bitterness,  felt  to  be, 
even  then,  only  the  image  and  symbol  of  that  more 
awful  anguish  which  desolated  His  purity  of  soul — all 
this  He  uplifted  on  high  upon  the  Cross,  with  holy 
arms  outstretched,  and  offered,  in  unshaken  willingness, 
as  the  proof  that  not  even  then,  amid  all  that  tremendous 
horror,  could  He  swerve  for  one  moment  from  His 
allegiance  to  His  God. 

So,  in  that  body,  with  that  body,  He  appealed,  He 
pleaded,  He  interceded  with  strong  crying  and  tears: 
and  was  heard  in  that  He  feared,  in  that  He  endured, 
in  that  with  that  body  He  died.  The  victory  was  won : 
man,  in  Christ,  had  conquered :  He  had  an  offering  once 
more  to  offer,  the  Holy  Body  and  Blood  which  had 
been  broken  and  shed,  in  the  might  of  au  invincible  will, 
on  Calvary.  "  Consummatum  est" — "It  is  finished." 
Now,  for  evermore,  there  stands  in  highest  heaven,  in 
the  holiest  of  holy  places,  a  Lamb  with  wounded  body, 
a  Lamb  as  it  had  been  slain.  The  closed  seals  are 
broken,  the  book  is  at  last  opened.  Weep  no  more,  O 
dear  disciple  whom  Jesus  loved ;  for  in  heaven,  and  in 
earth,  and  under  the  earth,  are  heard  voices,  and 
thunderings  and  lightnings,  and  through  the  thunderings 
the  sound  of  a  great  hymn — "  Worthy  is  the  Lamb  that 
was  slain,  and  has  redeemed  us  by  His  blood,  to  receive 
power,  and  riches,  and  wisdom,  and  strength,  and 
honour,  and  glory,  and  blessing." 


SERMON  IX. 
THE  SACRIFICE  OF  THE  REDEEMED. 

"  53nto  gou  it  is  gifocn  in  tfye  beljalf  of  <2Tf)rist,  not  onlg  to  btlirbt  on 
J^im,  but  also  to  suffer  for  $is  safe. "—Phil.  i.  29. 

Christ  offered  the  one  true  sacrifice  of  His  Body 
and  Blood,  in  our  stead ;  for  our  sakes  He  was 
buried.  He  took  our  place  under  the  scourge,  and  the 
thorns,  and  the  spear,  and  the  nails.  It  was  done  for 
us,  instead  of  us,  because  none  but  a  spotless  and 
unblemished  will,  none  but  an  entirely  innocent  heart, 
could,  by  its  own  inner  force,  turn  and  transform  the 
pangs,  which  had  been  our  condemnation,  into  the 
instruments  of  a  higher  allegiance.  He  alone,  our 
Samson,  could  use  the  very  pillars  which  carried  the 
house  of  sin,  as  the  tools  with  which  to  work  its  fall. 
He,  and  no  other,  could  be  so  perfected  through  suffer- 
ing; He,  and  He  alone,  could  so  become  the  Man  of 
sorrows,  that  the  sorrows  themselves  were  made  the 
means  and  tokens  of  a  purer  holiness. 

For  us,  then,  He  died;  Christ,  our  Passover,  was 
sacrificed  for  us. 

But  this  vicarious  assumption  of  our  sorrows  and 
pains  has  issues,  not  only  towards  the  Most  High  and 
Holy  God  (Who,  in  His  almighty  love  for  us,  had  endured 
to  see  His  only  Son  tortured,  despised,  and  stabbed  to 


1 34         The  Sacrifice  of  the  Redeemed. 


death,  in  blood  and  agony,  in  our  stead,  and  Who 
accepted  the  offering  for  the  sake  of  the  blameless  will 
of  the  Son,  which  proved  by  those  vicarious  griefs,  the 
unconquerable  love  that  He  and  the  Father  together 
bore  us),  but  it  has  issues,  too,  towards  us. 

The  sacrifice  is  vicarious ;  but  that  vicariousness  does 
not  shut  us  off,  like  a  wall,  from  our  suffering  Redeemer. 
God  forbid  !  Rather,  it  is  that  very  vicariousness  which 
exercises  a  binding,  a  uniting  power  upon  us.  For  by 
what  can  our  love  be  drawn  out  more  vividly,  more 
victoriously,  than  by  the  offer  of  a  life  made  most 
willingly  for  us  ?  By  that  strong  and  stirring  attraction, 
we  are  drawn  by  the  cords  of  a  man :  we  have  a  new 
hold  on  God  the  Father,  Who  is  now  known  to  us  as 
one  Who  will  give  up  His  own  Son  to  death  for  us.  We 
have  a  new  and  irresistible  sense  of  the  longing  desire 
with  which  He  thirsts  for  our  souls,  as  we  watch  and 
weep  over  those  cruel  wounds,  that  bleeding  brow,  that 
pierced  side,  as  we  shudder  in  the  darkness  under  the 
anguish  of  that  loud  and  exceeding  bitter  cry.  No, 
surely,  we  do  not  stand  outside,  shut  out  from  that 
absorbing  act:  the  fearful  twelve  who  knew  not  the 
undying  passion  of  love  which  was  working  its  way  to 
them  from  that  terrific  Cross,  they  indeed  might  be  far 
off — might  forsake  Him  in  His  sorrow,  and  flee ;  but 
even  then  the  instinctive  love  of  the  holy  Mother  and 
beloved  John,  and  the  clinging  hearts  of  a  few  faithful 
women,  could  not  endure  to  be  far  off  from  a  grief  that 
they,as  yet, misunderstood  :  and  we,  we,  who  know  all,  we, 
to  whom  those  gaping  wounds  are  red  lips  that  speak  of 
unquenchable  love,  we,  who,  through  that  bleeding  side, 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Redeemed.        1 35 


can  see  a  heart  that  beats  as  no  human  heart  ever  beat, 
in  the  intense  fire  of  its  desire  to  save — we  cannot, 
surely,  be  less  close  to  Him  than  they :  we  cannot  but 
draw  even  nearer  than  weeping  Magdalene:  we  cannot 
rest  until  we  be  one  in  love  with  Him  Who  so  loved  us 
— until  He  take  us  to  Himself,  our  souls  to  His,  our  life 
into  His  own  life,  lifting  us,  by  the  out-streaming  energy 
of  His  own  power  of  love,  up  on  to  that  Cross  on  which 
He  hangs ;  lifting  us  in  the  strength  of  His  unfailing 
promise,  "  I,  if  I  be  lifted  up  from  the  earth,  will  draw 
all  men  unto  Me." 

Christ's  sacrifice  is  no  far-away  fact,  to  be  shown  and 
gazed  upon.  It  draws  xis  also  into  itself.  For  consider 
what  exactly  it  was. 

Where  does  its  vicarious  efficiency  for  us  lie  ? 

Surely,  in  this ;  that  Christ  made  His  offering  out  of 
our  very  flesh. 

He  laid  hold  of  no  foreign  thing  to  offer ;  He  looked  not 
elsewhere  for  a  gift.  He  looked  at  this  world  we  live  in  : 
He  took  of  its  substance  for  His  gift.  He  laid  hold  of 
its  present  nature,  and  offered  that.  Forasmuch  as  the 
children  partook  of  flesh  and  blood,  Christ  also  partook 
of  the  same.  As  of  old,  on  the  Galilean  hills,  so  now, 
He  took  just  that  which  we  had  in  our  hands,  five  poor 
loaves  and  two  small  fishes  ;  and,  with  these,  just  as 
they  were,  He  looked  up  to  heaven  and  gave  thanks. 
That  flesh  and  blood,  which  He  took,  He  found  to  be 
covered  with  wounds  and  putriiying  sores.  He  found  it 
subject  to  pain,  wasted  with  illness.  He  found  it  liable 
to  be  crushed  and  trampled  to  death,  if  it  attempted  to 
hold  itself  pure  and  undefilod,  in  a  world  that  violently 


136 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Redeemed. 


hated  both  Him  and  His  Father.  As  He  found  it,  so 
He  took  it;  just  it,  and  no  other  :  this,  and  just  this,  is 
that  in  which  He  would  accomplish  His  priestly  work. 

But  these  are  the  very  conditions  in  which  we,  to 
this  day,  live :  that  flesh  which  He  took,  we  still  wear : 
still  it  is  full  charged  with  ache  and  torment :  still  it 
wastes  and  sickens :  still  the  dominion  of  sin  keeps  its 
corrupting  grip  upon  our  passions :  still  we  are  open  to 
a  thousand  murderous  assaults  which  beat  down,  and 
rend,  and  massacre  all  the  purity  and  uprightness  that 
we  have  it  in  us  to  put  forth.  We,  then,  hold  in  our 
hands  the  very  gifts  which  Christ,  our  Master,  offered. 
It  was  just  these  very  human  sorrows  that  He  turned 
into  sacraments  of  allegiance. 

Are  we  blinded  to  our  opportunities  by  the  fact  that 
they  fall  upon  us  by  natural  laws ;  or  that  they  seem 
entirely  accidental ;  or  that  they  are  brought  upon  us 
unjustly  by  wicked  hands  ? 

But  consider  the  offering  of  Christ. 

What  can  possibly  be  more  unlike  a  pleasing  sacrifice 
to  God,  than  His  death  ?  What  sign  of  its  being  a  High 
Priest's  offering,  broke  through  the  shadow  of  this 
world's  darkness  ?  It  differed,  in  no  degree  whatever, 
from  any  common  disaster  that  happens  to  us.  It  came 
upon  Him  by  simply  natural  means ;  it  looked,  to  the 
outsider,  as  a  most  cruel,  and  unfortunate,  and  bloody 
accident.  It  came  upon  Him  by  no  casual  choice  of  His 
own  :  He  did  not  choose  to  select  His  own  time,  or  way,  or 
manner  of  suffering :  He  let  it  happen,  as  it  would.  No 
power  is  put  forth  to  check  or  hinder  the  natural  course 
that  things  took  with  Him.    No ;  He  will  not  benefit 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Redeemed.         1 3  7 


Himself  by  any  twelve  legions  of  angels :  He  will,  in  no 
sense,  repudiate  the  conditions  of  the -flesh  in  which  He 
had  come  to  dwell :  it  is  man's  hour,  and  the  hour  of 
darkness :  He  is  in  their  hands  for  a  time :  and  let  them 
wreak  their  hate  as  they  will.  He  will  raise  no  protest, 
He  will  set  no  limit,  He  will  refuse  nothing.  "  So,  as  a 
lamb  was  He  led  to  the  slaughter ;  so,  as  a  sheep  before 
the  shearers,  He  never  opened  His  mouth." 

He  never  opened  His  mouth :  but,  throughout  those 
awful  hours,  in  the  secrecy  of  His  most  holy  silence,  that 
stainless  and  unfaltering  Will  worked  in  and  beneath 
the  miseries  of  shame  and  spitting,  the  biting  scorn  and 
savage  thorns  ;  throughout  it  all,  it  lived  as  a  flame, 
quickening  the  whole,  yet  not  consuming ;  throughout 
it  all,  it  rose,  as  a  fountain,  leaping  up  towards  the 
eternal  throne ;  throughout  it  all,  it  ceaselessly  upraised 
before  the  Father's  eyes,  the  pains  that  smote  it,  and 
the  wounds  that  bled ;  throughout  it  all,  from  dreary 
sunrise  to  that  last  hour  of  blinding  swoon,  the  lips  of 
His  Spirit  pleaded,  in  unbroken  patience,  the  liturgy  of 
that  tremendous  consecration. 

He  offered,  then,  and  saved  by  offering,  just  that 
human  life  which  still  is  ours  to-day ;  and  if  so,  His 
sacrifice  is  not  only  a  vicarious  act,  but,  also,  a  revelation 
of  the  true  use  to  which  we  may  put  this  very  world  in 
which  we  stand  ;  a  revelation  of  the  manner  by  which 
even  it,  with  all  its  confusions,  and  disappointments,  and 
sickness,  and  weariness,  and  anguish,  and  death,  may  be 
justified,  may  be  hallowed,  may  be  transformed  into  the 
fuel  of  that  one  sacrifice  which  alone  can  reconcile  the 
world  to  God. 


1 38         The  Sacrifice  of  the  Redeemed. 


Wo  are  drawn  into  the  circle  in  which  Christ's  eternal 
energies  work :  the  love  of  Christ  lays  hands  upon  us 
and  constrains  us:  we,  as  we  are  uplifted  by  the  power 
of  His  passion,  we,  too,  recover  our  priesthood ;  we  may 
lift  the  offering  of  this  our  flesh  to  God,  since  that  day 
when  Christ  died  in  the  likeness  of  our  flesh,  and 
sanctified  it  to  become  an  offering  to  God. 

We  may  do  it,  now,  though  we  are  severed  from  that 
great  clay  by  eighteen  hundred  long  and  weary  years : 
for  still,  to-day,  Christ,  the  ever-living  Priest,  pleads 
within  that  Holy  Place,  into  which  He  has  passed  before 
us,  that  holy  Blood,  once  poured  out  in  love  for  us, 
which  makes  Him  still  bone  of  our  bone,  flesh  of  our 
flesh ;  and  still,  to-day,  as  the  Father  looks  upon  that 
Blood,  there  breaks  from  His  eyes,  ever  and  again,  the 
splendour  of  an  unappeasable  and  exhaustless  love, 
which  hastens  from  afar,  to  greet  our  poor  and  pitiful 
gift  of  ourselves  to  Him,  kissing  us,  and  rejoicing,  as 
God  the  mighty  Forgiver  can  alone  rejoice,  that  this  His 
Son  "  was  dead,  and  is  alive  again ;  was  lost,  and  is 
found." 

What  is  it  that  we  can  now  hold  back  ? 

We  are  invited,  by  the  example  of  Christ's  Cross,  to 
offer  up  our  bodies  to  God :  our  bodies,  because  it  is  in 
them  that  we  are  what  we  are,  as  living  creatures,  men 
born  on  tliis  earth,  of  flesh  and  blood. 

We  are  to  bring  our  bodies ;  not  some  imaginary,  . 
speculative,  airy-natured  offering,  but  just  those  very 
loaves,  those  two  fishes  that  we  hold  in  our  hands. 
There  is  nothing  else  in  our  baskets,  nothing  else  we 
can  buy  for  God's  use  on  these  windy  and  desolate  hills. 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Redeemed.         1 39 


No;  our  bodies,  our  very  selves,  in  the  actual  conditions 
that  enclose  us,  and  that  knit  themselves  into  our  very 
being ;  our  bodies,  all  the  emotions,  impulses,  affections, 
ties,  desires,  hopes,  fears,  anxieties,  troubles,  diseases, 
losses,  griefs,  pains,  that  build  up  our  real  and  moving 
earthly  life,  these  are  our  offering,  these  the  gift  Christ 
authorizes  us  to  bring.  It  is  these,  the  interests  of  our 
bodily  selves,  which  we  were  once  tempted  to  believe 
our  own,  to  claim  for  ourselves ;  it  is  in  these  that  we 
once  found  pleasure  for  ourselves,  and  sought  our 
delight ;  these  to  which  we  once  clung ;  these  on  which 
we  angrily  rejected  all  attack ;  these  the  loss  of  which 
we  so  grievously  regretted ;  these  which  we  could  not 
endure  to  imagine  stolen  from  us.  Our  bodies,  with  all 
their  attachments,  and  needs,  and  joys,  have  been  the 
scene  of  our  sin,  of  our  forgetfulness  of  God :  these  same 
bodies  are  now  to  be  the  scene  of  our  redemptive  action, 
of  our  recovered  fealty,  that  they  be  laid  up  as  memorials 
before  the  Lord  for  ever.  Our  bodies  we  must  give :  we 
have  no  other  gift.  We  may  not  come  empty-handed  ; 
and  the  gift  is  laid  in  our  hands  by  God :  we  cannot 
repudiate  or  deny  it;  we  cannot  plead  that  we  have 
nothing  to  offer.  The  offering  is  ourselves,  ourselves  in 
our  actual,  present,  physical  estate.  That  is  what 
Christ  offered :  that  is  what  we,  by  His  grace,  may 
oiler  to-day. 

How  wonderful !  This  breathing  frame,  this  living- 
network  in  which  I  feel  myself  alive,  this  sensible, 
warm  motion,  this  quickening  flow  of  impulses,  this 
swelling  flood  of  aspiration,  this  tingling  quiver  of  joy, 
this  stir  of  sensitive  passion,  this  delicious  movement, — 


140 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Redeemed. 


all  this  ■which  I  know  to  be  myself,  and  name  by  my 
own  name,  and  belong  to,  and  am, — all  this,  so  close,  so 
familiar,  so  intimate,  is  a  holy  thing,  acceptable  to  God, 
that  peculiar  offering  in  which  He  finds  Himself  well 
pleased.  This  is  what  He  asks  for ;  this  He  loves  to 
receive ;  for  this  is  that  which  Jesus  Christ  took,  and 
blessed,  when  He  looked  up  to  heaven,  and  gave  thanks. 
All  this  ! — ah  !  and  far  more  than  this  ! 

All  that  I  feel  of  bitter  remorse,  when  sin  has  defiled 
the  flesh,  I  owe  to  God ;  all  the  sadness,  and  the  indig- 
nation, which  chills,  or  fires,  me  with  horrible  dread,  as 
one  by  one  my  earthly  delights  fall  away  from  me  ;  all 
the  dreariness  and  the  weariness  which  settle  down 
upon  my  heart,  as  life's  novelty  dies  down,  and  the 
world  grows  grey,  and  flat,  and  stale,  and  unprofitable  ; 
all  the  sobs  that  suck  out  my  life's  strength,  as  I  stand 
by  the  open  grave  into  which  the  creaking  cords  are 
lowering  one  whose  smile  will  never  more  at  all  on 
earth  greet  me  with  its  old,  tender,  endearing  welcome, 
whose  voice  will  never  more  again  be  heard  in  the  old 
places  and  paths  where  we  walked  and  laughed  and 
talked  together  so  many  and  many  a  happy  hour  in 
merry  days  gone  by ; — all  this  I  may  bring  and  offer. 
Yes,  and  the  blinding  tears,  and  the  aching  void,  and 
the  desolate  loneliness,  and  the  voiceless  gloom ;  all  this 
and  more.  The  pain  of  unrequited  love,  of  lost  hopes, 
of  cramping  disappointment,  of  all  the  cold  and  naked- 
ness and  hunger,  in  which  I  am  left  to  wander  along 
the  hard  and  barren  roads  of  a  niggardly  world;  all  the 
anguish,  with  which  the  accumulated  vileness  and  foul- 
ness of  man's  horrible  sinfulness  load  and  weigh  down 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Redeemed.         j  4  r 

my  soul,  itself,  alas !  only  too  akin  to  the  sins  which  it 
loathes ;  all  the  crushing  trouble  of  injustice  and  infamy ; 
all  the  hateful  pressure  of  swarming  lusts  that  crawl 
and  climb  within ;  all  the  coming  agony  when  my  soul 
shall  wrestle  with  the  dark  foe,at  the  gathering  of  the 
night  of  death  ;  all  the  torture  that  may  then  rack  me, 
all  the  miserable  sense  of  abandonment,  all  the  fearful 
sinking  of  heart  as  the  black  waters  close  over  my  head ; 
all  the  shudder,  as  the  flesh  falls  away  to  corruption  and 
loathsome  abomination ;  all  the  parching  thirst  of  that 
last  dread  struggle  in  which  my  soul  and  body  shall 
break  asunder,  shattered  and  dismayed ;— all  this  that 
seems  only  made  to  torture,  and  bruise,  and  condemn 
me,  so  ruthless,  so  useless,  so  blind,  so  unmerciful,  is, 
after  all,  no  horrible  accident,  no  pitiless  blunder,  no 
victory  of  some  dark  and  monstrous  law  of  fruitless 
pain.    No  ;  this  is  just  the  very  thing,  that  I  may  uplift 
and  plead  before  God.    All  this  is  the  very  offering, 
the  token  of  true  and  loving  homage,  by  which  I  can 
prove  myself  loyal-hearted,  and  so  become,  in  Christ. 

well  pleasing  to  God. 

0  most  wonderful,  most  holy  privilege !    How  is  it 

that  I  have  so  long  overlooked  the  gift  that  God  had 

placed  in  my  hands  to  offer  ? 

Can  it,  indeed,  be  true  that  that  which  was  to  me  as 

the  shadow  of  despair,  is  the  moment  of  my  priestly 

service  within  the  holy  places  ? 

Yes,  now ;  now  is  the  moment  of  your  call  to  the 

ministry  of  Christ.    Now,  when  the  loss  of  friends  is 

bitter;  now,  when  the  agony  of  suffering  is  intense; 

now,  when  the  light  of  your  eyes  is  gone  from  you, 


1 42         The  Sacrifice  of  the  Redeemed. 


now  is  the  acceptable  time ;  behold  !  now  is  the  day  of 
salvation. 

Be  strong ;  be  strong  and  of  a  good  courage.  It  has 
come  to  you  ;  it  has  been  put  into  your  hands,  your 
gift,  your  sacrifice.  That  suffering,  that  loss — that  is 
it — that  is  your  offering  ;  your  own  death,  that  is  your 
opportunity.  Now  is  your  time  to  show  yourself  the 
follower  of  Him,  Who  carried  His  own  Blood  in  within 
the  holy  places. 

Offer  up  to  God  your  life  ;  your  anguish  ;  your  blood. 
Offer  it ;  be  not  afraid.  It  is  a  consecrated,  a  holy 
thing,  the  one  worthy  sacrifice  that  man  can  offer. 

It  is  true,  you  are  powerless.  You  cannot  make  that 
offering  aright.  You  have  not  the  heart,  nor  the  will. 
You  sink  down  oppressed.  You  dare  not  plead  before 
God  sufferings  so  unwillingly  accepted,  so  wearily 
endured. 

No — but  it  is  not  you  that  offer,  but  Christ  that  offers 
in  you.  Christ,  the  mighty  Interceder,  leaves  you  not 
comfortless,  leaves  you  not  alone,  in  the  midst  of  a  world 
of  tribulation.  He  comes  to  you,  to  make  His  abode  in 
you,  in  the  power  of  that  Holy  Spirit,  the  Comforter, 
Who,  from  within  our  ignorant  prayers,  sends  up  His 
strong  and  prevailing  supplication. 

He  comes — most  wonderful,  most  gracious,  most 
blessed  of  all  His  many  mercies — He  comes  to  you,  in 
the  very  might  and  reality  of  His  own  perfect  sacrifice, 
to  quicken  your  dull  will  by  the  marvellous  efficacy  of 
His  own  Body  and  Blood — that  Body  and  that  Blood, 
in  which  He  bore  all  your  weaknesses  and  all  your 
groaning  sins,  and  laid  them,  purified  and  sanctified,  on 


The  Sacrifice  of  the  Redeemed.  143 


the  altar  of  His  holy  Cross,  that  by  their  everlasting 
strength  and  consolation,  we,  who  eat  of  that  flesh  and 
drink  of  that  saving  Blood,  may  indeed  be  baptized  with 
the  baptism  wherewith  He  was  baptized. 

There,  He  comes,  to  that  upper  chamber,  where  His 
Church  has  made  ready  the  passover :  comes  at  all  hours, 
when  the  world,  that  hated  Him,  turns  its  hatred  upon 
us ;  and  our  friends  betray  us ;  and  we  ourselves  are 
only  too  ready  to  deny  Him :  comes,  when,  against  us, 
evil  gathers  with  its  swords  and  its  staves,  and  our  soul 
is  exceeding  sorrowful  even  unto  death.  Thither  He 
comes ;  He  enters  in ;  He  abides ;  He  sups  with  us  ; 
that  we,  His  friends,  may  have  peace.  Peace  !  not  from 
trouble,  and  anguish,  and  deatli ;  not  the  peace  of  easy 
safety ;  not  the  peace  that  the  world  longs  after ;  but 
peace  in  Him,  Who  amid  all  trouble  has  pledged  to  us 
the  victory ;  peace  in  that  we  possess  within  us  Him 
Who  is  stronger  than  all  that  can  be  against  us.  "  Let 
not  your  hearts  be  troubled,  neither  let  them  be  afraid. 
In  the  world  ye  shall  have  tribulation.  But  be  of  good 
cheer;  I  have  overcome  the  world." 


SERMON  X. 


THE  SPIRITUAL  EYE. 

iPjcn  are  not  of  tfje  foorlu,  eben  as  £  am  not  of  t'je  foorlb.  .  .  . 
3s  GTIjou  fjast  smt  me  into  tlje  toorlo,  eben  so  ijabe  £  also  sent  tljcm 
into  tfje  foorlD."— St.  John  xvii.  16,  18. 

There  are  two  aspects  in  which  the  world  presents 
itself  to  all  of  us,  and  these  two  are  so  utterly  different 
in  outline  and  temper,  that  most  of  us  can  but  stare 
helplessly  from  one  to  the  other,  and  wonder  what 
possible  thread  of  connection  can  ever  bring  them  to- 
gether into  that  harmony  which  constitutes  reality,  into 
that  union  which  binds  them  the  one  to  the  other  with 
the  living  energy  of  God.  In  the  one,  the  eye  falls, 
wherever  it  looks,  upon  a  steady,  enduring,  substantial 
world,  spreading  out  far  and  wide  around  us  its  serried 
array  of  facts — unending,  unbroken,  unceasing.  "We 
have  before  us,  it  may  be,  a  lovely  landscape ;  we  look 
up  into  the  sky,  and  above  us  rolls  the  great  sun,  and 
all  around  us  glistens  and  quivers  the  quickening  breath 
of  air ;  and  at  our  feet  the  vast  sea  spreads  its  plain  of 
moving  waters,  and  away  behind  us  lies  the  infinite, 
varied  distance  of  wood,  and  field,  and  heaving  hill; 
and  through  the  fields  run  for  ever  and  ever  the  move- 
ment of  the  rivers  and  the  rustling  of  the  brooks,  and, 
far  above,  the  clouds  hang  patient  and  slow,  and  the 
rooks  pass  by,  pressing  intently  towards  some  distant 


The  Spiritual  Eye.  145 


home,  and  the  sheep  feed  unceasingly,  and  the  bees 
come  buzzing  about  the  wild-flowers,  and  all  the  air  is 
alive  with  the  incessant  murmur  of  tiny  life.  There  it 
is,  the  great  life  of  Nature,  moving  along  in  its  steady 
and  strong  magnificence,  large,  resistless,  self-contented. 
And  man — man  is  borne  along  in  the  mighty,  massive 
whole,  part  and  parcel  with  it ;  his  presence  hardly 
perceptible  but  for  a  touch  or  two  of  blue  smoke  in  the 
fields ;  his  world  of  thought  and  religion  just  marked 
here  and  there  by  a  faint  church  tower,  half  hidden 
among  the  trees :  and  we,  too,  as  we  lie  on  our  back 
on  the  hill-side,  we,  too,  have  almost  disappeared,  are 
almost  forgotten :  we  are  but  an  accident  in  the  great 
scenic  display,  carried  along  with  it,  melted  into  it. 
What  are  we  to  the  rhythm  of  its  giant  march  ?  What 
disturbance  would  there  be  if  we  dropped  out  of  the 
picture  ?  Whether  we  were  there  or  not,  that  sun 
would  still  be  shining,  the  sea  still  gleaming,  the 
butterflies  still  flitting  along  in  endless  rise  and  fall, 
not  a  quiver  woidd  cease  in  the  leaves,  not  a  ripple 
would  be  changed  on  the  waters.  Such  is  this  aspect  of 
physical  nature  ;  and  Science  comes  in  to  aid  in  spread- 
ing out  the  limits  of  this  vision  of  Nature  far  back  into 
the  limitless  Past,  far  forward  into  the  endless  Future. 
It  exhibits  all  this,  that  enters  at  eye  and  ear,  as  but 
one  moment  of  an  infinite  process,  one  chain  in  an 
unalterable  sequence.  It  unrolls  the  long  and  awful 
histories  of  ages  upon  ages,  and  through  all  of  them  it 
shows  us  that  sun  still  rising  and  setting,  those  waters 
still  moving,  those  clouds  still  gathering  and  vanishing, 
those  winds  still  creeping  along  the  grass ;  and  as  we 

K 


146  The  Spiritual  Eye. 


look,  and  read,  and  lir.ten,  man  has  vanished  out  of  the 
drama.  It  matters  not  whether  the  human  race  he  yet 
Drought  into  existence:  still  the  huge  formation  con- 
tinues its  ceaseless  coalescence :  still  the  vegetable 
growths  rise  and  wither  and  decay,  and  rise  again : 
still  the  waters  wear  and  mould  the  cleaving  rocks. 
Careless  of  us,  the  silent  impenetrable  years  labour,  in 
solemn  and  tremendous  stillness,  at  their  fateful  work. 
We — we  are  to  them  as  the  smoke  that  vanisheth  away. 
"  We  look,  and  behold  we  are  gone,  and  our  place  can 
no  more  be  found." 

Or,  again,  we  rise  from  our  dreams  and  our  studies, 
and  pass  out  into  the  hurry  and  crowd  of  our  city 
streets.  Here,  at  least,  we  shall  find  the  reality  of 
humankind :  and  what  do  we  see  ?  We  see  men, 
eager  and  intent,  hastening  hither  and  thither,  with  all 
that  hurry  of  business  which  we  watch  going  on  round 
any  nest  of  ants,  or  in  any  toiling  bee-hives.  We 
watch  the  unresting  labour,  the  terrible  seriousness 
with  which  they  are  at  work :  and  all  this  toil,  and  all 
this  intricate  machinery,  is  just  to  carry  on  this  human 
life  of  ours.  Eound  us  swells  the  roar  and  clamour  of 
the  struggle,  the  multitudinous  detail  of  the  docks  and  the 
merchandise,  the  elaborate  mechanism,  the  wearisome 
rush  and  tumult  of  the  railways,  the  vast  noise  of  our 
arsenals,  the  clanging  of  our  mines  and  of  our  mills ; 
and  men,  in  the  midst  of  all  this,  as  they  hasten  by  us, 
as  we  see  them  swarming,  and  jostling,  and  shouting, 
what  are  they  to  us  more  than  the  bees  or  the  ants  ? 
What  are  they  to  us  but  ingenious  pieces  of  nervous 
living  mechanism,  things  of  flesh  and  blood ;  like  the 


The  Spiritual  Eye. 


H7 


animals,  only  a  little  cleverer,  capable  of  larger  stretches 
of  reason  and  sharper  calculations ;  but  still  nothing- 
more  than  what  we  see  them  to  be  ;  nothing  more  than 
can  be  shut  up  within  the  walls  of  the  body ;  beings 
whom  we  can  sift  and  analyze  by  experiment  and 
observation,  whom  we  can  classify  according  to  their 
obvious  habits  and  tempers,  whom  we  can  sum  up  into 
statistics,  so  as  to  examine  and  predict  the  amount  or 
degree  of  their  disorder,  their  drunkenness,  their  crime, 
the  general  laws  under  which  they  are  blindly  pursuing 
each  his  own  interest :  and  in  all  this,  again,  what  is 
it  to  us  who  this  or  that  individual  may  be,  who  passes 
before  our  eyes,  or  is  swept  up  into  our  statistics  ? 
Labourer,  merchant,  beggar,  he  is  but  a  specimen  of  his 
class.  To  our  generalizations  it  is  absolutely  indifferent 
who  form  the  particular  cases.  If  all  those  men  before 
us  died  to-day,  and  others  of  a  like  class  stepped  into 
their  places,  it  would  be  all  the  same  to  us  who  look 
on  :  our  formula  would  be  as  true  of  the  new  as  of  the 
old ;  nor,  again,  would  it  affect  one  atom  of  this  swarm- 
ing life  before  us,  that  we  were  there,  we  were  watching, 
classifying,  criticising  them. 

Such  is  nature,  such  is  science,  such  is  human  life,  as 
they  appear  to  the  fleshly  eye  of  man  :  the  fleshly  eye, 
observe,  because,  wide  and  elastic  as  may  seem  the  scope 
covered  by  the  sensuous  imagination  and  the  scientific 
understanding,  they  do  but  extend  the  horizon  given  by 
the  eye  of  flesh,  they  cannot  outstrip  its  bounds ;  they 
can  but  describe  to  you  what  the  eye  would  see  if  it 
were  present ;  and,  therefore,  they  only  serve  to  widen 
the  compass  of  the  physical  sight;  and,  therefore,  all 


14^  The  Spiritual  Eye. 


that  they  give  you  is  still  subject  to  those  conditions 
which  make  the  flesh  to  be,  not  sin,  but  the  symbol,  and 
the  sphere  of  sin.  These  conditions  are  not  evil  in  them- 
selves, as  abstractions,  any  more  than  the  lovely  mechan- 
ism of  the  flesh  is  evil,  as  exhibited  by  the  physiologist, 
severed  from  the  soul  that  lived  in  and  through  it.  But, 
still,  they  are  only  abstractions — abstractions  useful  or 
picturesque  of  the  letter  from  the  spirit,  of  the  body 
from  the  life,  of  the  creature  from  its  Creator ;  and  if 
they  lose  their  abstract  character,  and  become  presented 
to  our  spirit  as  the  real  sphere  in  which  it  lives  and 
moves,  as  the  actual,  substantial,  concrete  world  in  which 
it  has  to  find  its  place  and  work,  then  at  once  these 
abstractions  become  the  poetry,  the  science,  the  common- 
places of  Materialism;  and, the  materialistic  attitude  once 
reached,  then. the  logical  confession  passes  into  a  moral 
disturbance,  as  St.  Paul  draws  out  in  the  great  First 
Chapter  of  the  Romans.  We  have  lost  hold  on  the  true 
significance  of  this  earthly  fabric,  the  glory  and  power 
of  God,  and  God  gives  it  and  us  over  to  a  reprobate 
mind  :  it  becomes  then  the  ground,  the  possession,  the 
material,  and  the  food  of  sin — the  body  of  death ;  and 
therefore  it  is,  my  brethren,  that  to  us  who  believe, 
this  aspect  of  things  which  I  have  tried  to  sketch  is 
inscribed  with  the  evil  name  of  "the  World" — the 
world,  the  flesh,  that  which  the  carnal  mind  can  under- 
stand :  not  that  the  object  before  it,  on  which  its  eye 
falls,  is  itself  anything  but  good,  but  that  the  aspect  it- 
self, with  all  that  is  given  us  in  it,  is  removed,  changed, 
transferred  out  of  the  conditions  which  hold  it  in  com- 
munion with  God,  in  dependence  on  His  spiritual  life. 


The  Spiritual  Eye. 


149 


We  are  presented  by  it  with  a  world  professing  to  live 
its  own  life,  to  be  itself  real,  self-sufficient,  independent : 
a  system  of  things  standing  there  before  us  complete, 
actual,  palpably  substantial,  supporting,  sustaining, 
animating  itself  on  its  own  principles,  its  own  grounds : 
a  concrete  fact  of  itself,  to  be  judged,  and  tested,  and 
gauged  by  the  sure  line  and  plummet  of  the  senses,  or 
of  the  general  rules  educed  from  sensible  experience  by 
the  safe  steady  guidance  of  common  sense.  This  is  the 
World!  "The  World!"  Ah!  which  of  us  does  not 
know  the  horrible  reality  with  which  it  can  clip  us 
round !  Often  and  often,  as  we  feel  ourselves  talking 
its  light  talk,  passing  its  easy  judgments,  acting  our 
part  as  if  there  were  no  other  existence  but  it :  often 
and  often,  as  we  look  on  at  men  who  meet,  and  bow,  and 
eat,  and  smile  in  front  of  us :  often  and  often,  again,  as 
we  glance  along  the  glib  classifications  of  history,  the 
laborious  analysis  of  political  economy,  the  passionless 
abstractions  of  astronomy  or  geology,  there  suddenly 
flashes  across  us  the  swift  memory  of  our  old  familiar 
religious  language, — language  about  God,  and  the  soul, 
and  the  activity  of  the  spirit;  language  that  sounds 
no  longer  real  in  the  face  of  this  world  of  solid  flesh 
and  blood,  of  linked  and  serried  facts,  which  shuts 
us  in  on  every  side ;  language  become  vague,  floating, 
dreamy,  fanciful,  startling  us  like  some  guilty  thing, 
surprised  by  the  fearful  haunting  sense  of  far-away, 
which  has  come  over  it;  language  which  we  know 
ought  to  be  ours,  but  yet  which  we  cannot  adapt  to  the 
conditions  before  us,  cannot  fix,  cannot  find  a  place  for; 
language  which  we  dare  not  produce  just  now,  dare 


1 50  The  Spiritual  Eye. 


not  apply  to  the  life  we  are  looking  at,  dare  not  touch 
on  to  the  man  with  whom  we  are  talking ;  ashamed, 
baffled,  confused,  we  creep  home  from  this  or  that  social 
gathering,  false,  we  are  dimly  conscious,  to  our  best 
and  highest  profession,  yet  uncomfortably  doubtful 
as  to  where  our  mistake  lies. 

Doubtful,  I  say,  and  yet  we,1  who  are  prepared  to  be 
sent  by  Christ  to  be  as  lights  in  the  world,  testifying  to 
the  reality  of  God's  action,  witnesses  to  the  Resurrec- 
tion,— we  cannot  afford  to  be  doubtful  about  these 
primary,  these  elemental  issues  of  faith.  No;  we 
cannot  have  laid  upon  us  the  High  Priesthood  of 
God,  until  we  have  known  how  to  face,  and  measure, 
and  forswear  the  kingdom  of  the  world  ;  until  we 
have  been  verily  assured  that  the  kingdom  of  God 
has  come  amongst  us.  And  I  have  only  ventured 
to  dwell  so  long  this  morning  on  this  world-kingdom, 
in  order  that  you  may  recognize,  in  all  its  size,  and 
force,  and  influences,  what  it  is  you  pledge  yourselves 
at  ordination  to  strip  off,  and  lay  aside,  and  throw  behind 
you,  and  abandon  for  ever — what  is  that  scheme,  that 
entangling  system  of  things,  that  glamour  of  circum- 
stance, that  mode  of  looking  at  life,  which  you  under- 
take to  hate,  and  to  fight,  and  to  overcome,  with  all  the 
might,  and  strength,  and  courage,  and  spirit  that  you 
can  give  to  Christ  to-day  !  "  If  ye  were  of  the  world, 
the  world  would  love  its  own :  but  because  ye  are  not 
of  the  world,  but  I  have  chosen  you  out  of  the  world, 
therefore  the  world  hateth  you."  So  our  dear  Lord 
says  to  me  and  you,  to  all  His  Church,  and  most 
directly  to  all  His  Priests.    To  be  chosen  by  Him  is  to 

1  Preached  at  an  Ordination  Service  in  Salisbury  Cathedral. 


The  Spiritual  Eye. 


pass  out  of  this  carnal  temper.  It  is  to  feel  that  the 
world  and  the  fashion  of  the  world  are  an  enemy 
warring  against  the  life ;  and,  therefore,  let  me  attempt 
to  tell  you  a  little  of  that  other  aspect  into  which  He 
chooses  us,  and  from  out  of  which  we  can  look  back  on 
our  old  falsity,  on  the  treacherous  service  we  have  for- 
sworn as  a  realized  foe. 

"  As  the  Father  hath  sent  Me,  even  so  send  I  you :"  to 
be  sent  as  Christ  was  sent  from  God.  Our  mission,  my 
beloved,  has  God,  and  God  alone,  as  its  starting-point. 
A  direct  act  of  God,  in  Christ,  upon  us :  the  full  and 
abiding  recognition  of  an  immediate  contact  between 
our  souls  and  God's  Life :  the  known  and  felt  actuality 
of  His  Personal  choice,  mission,  ordination  of  us  for 
His  work — with  this  we  begin  ;  from  this  we  date  our 
Life  ;  by  this  we  know  ourselves  to  be  born  again ;  in 
this  we  have  our  being.  We,  who  are  servants  of  Christ, 
we  cannot,  we  dare  not,  set  out  on  our  task  unless  we 
feel,  as  it  were,  God's  expressed  and  Living  energy  of 
will  at  our  back;  until  we  can  feel  that  for  God  to 
withdraw  for  one  moment  that  living  breath  with  which 
He  spoke  our  name,  and  appointed  and  sent  us  forth, 
would  be  to  feel  all  our  support,  and  sustenance,  and 
force  broken  down  and  departed.  "  My  soul  hangeth 
still  upon  God."  That  is  our  primary  fact.  To  con- 
fess that  we  live  only  by  the  force  of  that  spiritual 
activity  which  flows  out  of  God,  and  begets,  and  uplifts, 
and  feeds,  and  fulfils  us — this  is  our  basal  act  of  faith  : 
by  this  faith,  faith  in  the  Name  of  God  signed  upon  us, 
the  Name  energizing  within  us,  the  Name  which  is  the 
vigour  of  God  passing  out  from  Him  to  seal  us  to  Him- 
self,— by  the  victorious  efficacy  of  this  faith  alone,  are 


1 5  2  The  Spiritual  Eye. 


we  made  whole,  and  stand  upright  upon  our  feet,  and 
enter  by  the  apostolic  favour  and  presence  into  the 
temple,  walking,  and  leaping,  and  praising  God. 

We  start,  then,  from  the  side  of  God,  and  see  what 
significance  this  has  for  the  life  here.  It  means  that  we 
live  in  this  world,  not  as  growing  up  out  of  it,  not  as  its 
products,  but  as  coming  to  it  from  outside,  as  those  who 
are  sent  to  it — sent,  as  He  was  sent,  Who  came  down 
into  it  out  of  the  Father's  Presence,  and  felt  His  round 
of  daily  life  here,  so  far  as  it  was  shut  up  within  that 
short  space  of  thirty  years,  to  be  but  as  an  interlude 
in  the  Spiritual  Existence  which  He  had  eternally 
on  high :  "  I  came  forth  from  the  Father,  and  come 
into  the  world :  again  I  leave  the  world,  and  go  unto 
the  Father."  We,  who  inherit  the  apostolic  sending, 
have,  therefore,  to  look  out  upon  this  world  around 
us,  not  as  if  it  were  quite  natural  for  us  to  be  here,  but 
as  if  our  prime  purpose  in  being  here  at  all  lay  in 
the  need  to  serve  the  purpose  of  God's  love  for  man, 
which  has  made  Him  keep  us  out  of  that  abiding  place 
of  His  Presence,  which  is  our  only  true  Home,  out  of 
that  bosom  of  God,  where  He  is  Who  is  our  only  Life, 
and  where  we  long  naturally  to  be  with  Him.  "  We 
are  here  as  strangers  and  pilgrims,"  or  rather  as  ambas- 
sadors of  Christ,  sent  into  a  far  country ;  messengers 
come  from  a  distance,  knocking  at  the  vineyard  door 
to  ask  for  the  fruits  that  are  due  to  our  Master.  Our 
whole  contact  with  the  world,  our  points  of  attachment 
to  it,  are  made  such  by  coming  within  the  compass 
of  our  mission  to  it.  We  love  it ;  but  we  love  it  for 
the  love  that  the  Father  has  for  it.    There  is  our 


The  Spiritual  Eye.  153 

motive.    We  handle  it  there  where  God's  determining 
and  authoritative  Will  allows  us  to  place  our  fingers. 
We  move  about  in  it  only  where  the  everlasting  arms 
deliberately  bear  us.    Not,  indeed,  that  we  fear  at  all 
the  touch  of  earth— God  forbid  !  but  that  it  has  become 
perilous  to  the  fallen  spirit  of  man,  and  can  only  be- 
come secure  to  him  once  more  when  he  has  been  taken 
out  of  this  fallen  flesh  of  his,  and  has  been  bathed 
anew  in  the  light  and  being  of  the  Father  of  all  Life, 
and  been  given  back  to  the  world,  inspired  by  the 
reconciling  breath,  instinct  with  the  transfused,  and 
penetrative,  and  transforming  energy  of  God,  capable  of 
being  a  channel  through  which  the  grace  of  God's  love 
flows  out  to  redeem  the  dead  husk  of  the  withered  earth 
into  the  fresh,  blossoming  splendour  of  the  new  king- 
dom of  heaven.    Through  man's  fall  the  world  lost 
its  hold  on  the  sustaining  life  outside  it,  on  which 
it  depended:  through  man,  that  life   from  without 
returns  to  recover  its  lost  domain.     Through  us  the 
Spirit  is  sent;  sent  forth,  not  out  of  us,  but  sent  from 
far  away ;  sent  from  that  far  heart  of  God  to  which 
the  Son  returned,  when  we,  whom  He  left  in  the 
world,  saw  Him  no  more.    The  Spirit  of  truth  and 
consolation  is  sent ;  and  so  it  is  that  He  comes  suddenly 
from  without,  sweeping  down  as  the  wind  upon  us, 
we  know  not  whence ;  and  in  the  might  of  that  great 
mission,  we,  even  we  poor  worms  of  earth,  feel  ourselves 
changed,  uplifted,  borne  along,  as  by  a  rushing  mighty 
flame;  the  light  of  another  world  is  quivering  above 
our  heads;  the  inarticulate  tongue  of  a  strange,  a 
heavenly  country  is  alive  within  our  lips  ;  the  whole 


1 54  The  Spiritual  Eye. 


steady  fabric  of  this  substantial  world  is  shaken  and 
broken  up  at  the  incoming  of  this  new  power.  Men  of 
this  world  look  at  us,  and  stare,  and  wonder,  for  we  are 
to  them  as  drunkards,  and  they  outside  seem  to  us, 
who  stand  within  the  compass  of  this  strong  influence, 
as  phantoms  in  a  dream,  as  ghostly  shapes  in  a  vision — 
things  that  have  no  substance,  but  will  melt  and  vanish 
away.  For,  indeed,  our  young  men  now  see  visions,  and 
our  old  men  dream  dreams  ;  only,  the  dream,  the  vision, 
is  now  the  reality,  and  it  is  our  old  every-day  life  which 
has  become  the  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision  ;  a  bad  dream 
ready  to  pass  away  at  the  coming  of  the  morning,  when 
the  sun,  the  centre  of  all  that  old  substantiality,  shall 
turn  into  darkness,  and  the  moon,  that  steady  witness 
in  heaven,  "  into  blood,  before  the  great  and  notable 
day  of  the  Lord  come."  Yes,  my  brethren,  "  we  are 
drunk  with  new  wine."  We  have  tasted  the  fruit  of 
the  grape,  as  Christ  gives  it  new  in  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.  Which  of  us  has  not  known  this  now  and  then  ? 
At  the  moment  of  any  great  spiritual  crisis, — often  at 
some  time  of  prayer,  often  at  the  coming  of  Christ  in 
the  breaking  of  bread,  often  in  the  intensity  of  a  search- 
ing sorrow,  above  all,  as  we  stand  round  the  open  grave 
of  any  one  dear  to  us  as  life  itself, — the  whole  aspect  of 
the  ordinary  earth  is  suddenly  reversed  to  us ;  the  spirit- 
world  breaks  open  to  us  ;  that  land  into  which  our  dear 
one  has  passed  is  felt  to  be  the  reality  which  we  always 
profess  it  to  be.  It  embraces,  it  touches  us  ;  its  presence 
is  poured  about  and  around  us  ;  we  breathe  its  air ;  our 
whole  being,  stirred  and  uplifted  by  the  supporting 
grace  of  God,  rises  to  greet  the  incoming  love ;  every 


The  Spiritual  Eye. 


155 


fibre  of  the  soul  is  stirring  with  the  exaltation  of  that 
Divine  delight  which  washes  round  it  like  a  vast  tide, 
swelling  up  from  some  eternal  sea  of  light,  and  life,  and 
glory,  whose  waves  are  under  us  to  carry,  whose  breeze 
is  in  our  face  to  quicken.  We  know  at  last  the  vigour 
and  sweetness  of  the  love  of  Christ  which  passeth 
knowledge  ;  and  then,  if  we  lift  our  eyes  to  look  on  the 
sky,  and  the  trees,  and  the  strangers  standing  about  to 
watch  our  funeral,  lo !  they  have  become  strange  and 
alien  to  us ;  the  forms,  the  faces,  they  seem  to  us 
hollow,  ghostly,  unreal,  the  mere  husks  and  shells  of 
the  Divine  force  which  is  alive  in  us  and  them,  quiver- 
ing through  us  and  them,  threading  its  way  in  and  out 
of  our  souls.  We  have  to  put  out  our  hands  to  recover 
the  reality  of  the  world  of  sense  :  we  have  to  touch 
our  own  limbs  to  make  sure  whether  they  are  ours  :  we 
are  surprised  to  find  the  tears  welling  out  of  our  eyes, 
as  if  we  had  lost  a  friend,  instead  of  our  having  found 
our  and  his  true  and  only  life.  This  exalted  joy  we 
are  now  and  then  privileged  to  feel;  and  when  we  do, 
then  let  us,  I  beseech  you,  us,  who  are  Priests  of  God, 
cling  fast  to  the  memory  of  such  a  moment ;  cling  and 
cleave  to  it,  treasure  it,  cherish  it,  that  it  may  be  the 
fountain  light  of  all  our  day,  the  master  light  of  all 
our  seeing,  the  upholding  strength  of  all  our  years, 
the  consecration  of  all  our  efforts.  For  it  is  in  sue1, 
moments  as  these  that  we  pass  into  the  attitude  of 
spiritual  dependence  upon  God :  we  drain  the  new 
wine  of  our  spiritual  priesthood,  and  the  work  of  our 
holy  office  is  nothing  but  this,  to  spread  out  the  insight, 
the  inspiration  of  such  brief  glimpses  of  God  over  an 


156 


The  Spiritual  Eye. 


ever-increasing  circuit  of  this  earth  we  see  about  us  :  we 
have  got  to  labour  incessantly,  that  this  whole  vast  and 
teeming  world  of  ours  may  feel  itself  hung,  as  we  then 
hung,  in  the  suspended  and  floating  atmosphere  of 
spirit,  in  the  breath  of  God,  even  as  a  word  floats 
in  the  larger,  fuller  meaning  of  Him  Whose  breath 
creates  it.  We  have  got  to  increase  and  emphasize  the 
faith  which  overcometh  the  world ;  and  what  is  faith, 
but  the  living  declaration,  the  abiding  sense,  that  by 
the  spiritual  eye  alone  is  the  earth  seen  as  it  indeed  is : 
not,  let  me  repeat,  that  the  earth  is  in  itself  evil 
or  unreal, — rather  that  the  earth  in  itself  is  neither 
good  or  evil,  real  or  unreal;  in  that  it  is  nothing  of 
itself,  but  utterly  dependent  upon  the  life  of  the 
Creative  and  Sustaining  Spirit,  and,  therefore,  that  it  is 
evil  and  unreal  to  abstract  it  from  God,  and  to  view 
it  by  and  in  itself ;  that  any  such  attempt  falsifies  our 
insight,  disturbs  our  moral  balance,  shuts  out  the 
presence  of  God,  hardens,  benumbs,  corrupts  our 
spiritual  faculties ;  that  you  cannot,  therefore,  begin  by 
isolating  the  world  from  God,  to  make  sure  of  it  first, 
for,  by  so  beginning,  you  are  tangled  in  a  network 
of  illusion,  are  ruining  your  capacity  to  see  God,  are 
only  building  up  round  yourself  a  hard  and  naked 
prison-house,  which  closes  round  you,  till  all  looks  cold 
and  stiff,  and  impenetrable,  a  bare  cell,  in  which  your 
starved  soul  pines  away,  unfed  and  unwarmed,  to  its 
dreary  death.  No ;  our  faith  is  that,  since  the  world 
hangs  still  upon  God,  only,  therefore,  by  beginning  with 
God,  by  starting  from  the  implanted  and  impregnated 
sense  of  this  original  reality,  can  we  hope  to  pass 


The  Spiritual  Eye. 


157 


onward  to  the  gathering  in  of  this  wide  and  varied 
universe,  into  the  fairness  and  the  glory  of  God's 
almighty  and  all-pervading  Love. 

This,  it  seems  to  me,  is  one  great  meaning  of  our 
Christian  antithesis,  of  faith  and  sight,  of  the  kingdom 
of  God,  and  the  kingdom  of  the  world  ;  and  let  me  just 
instance  two  immediate  practical  results  for  the  minis- 
ters of  the  Church. 

First,  as  to  others.  This  faith  of  ours,  starting,  as  it 
does,  from  the  recognition  of  our  spirit's  essential  depen- 
dence upon  God,  starting  from  the  immediate  contact  of 
Creator  with  created  spirit,  finds  itself  at  once  in 
emphatic  contrast  with  the  way  in  which  the  carnal  eye 
looks  out  upon  nature  and  upon  men.  You  remember 
how  to  the  latter  the  vision  of  nature  meant  the  dis- 
appearance of  the  self :  you,  who  looked  and  saw,  were 
a  mere  accident  in  the  scene;  the  wider  and  larger 
the  vision,  the  more  man  dropped  out  of  the  picture, 
as  a  forgotten,  valueless  incident ;  or,  if  you  turned  your 
view  on  to  men,  their  whole  individual  importance 
vanished ;  they  became  mere  mechanical  elements  in  a 
social  system,  mere  figures  of  a  statistical  class:  you 
stood  outside  watching  them,  as  you  would  watch  ants 
at  their  building,  guessing  at  this  or  that  ingenious  aim, 
admiring  this  or  that  patient  enterprise,  but  still  outside, 
shut  out,  indifferent  to  them,  as  they  to  you.  To  us  who 
believe,  how  utterly  all  is  changed !  Every  moment, 
every  effort,  of  the  sight  which  comes  by  faith,  stirs  our 
deepest  self  into  wider,  and  intenser,  and  stronger  life. 
Every  insight  into  God's  Being  is  an  imperative  sum- 
mons of  our  own  souls  into  more  vigorous  action ;  and, 


158  The  Spiritual  Eye. 

therefore,  as  we  look  out,  with  a  seeing  faith,  upon 
nature,  we  are  not  lost  or  forgotten.  No  !  the  larger  the 
vision,  the  knowledge,  the  more  impetuously  does  the 
stormy  fire  of  love  rush  with  quickening  energy  from 
God  to  us,  from  us  to  God.  We  feel  our  very  souls 
clinging  closer  to  Him,  as  they  drink  in  the  light  and 
life  immortal  from  the  Divine  Presence,  which  they  see, 
and  know,  and  treasure,  and  worship  in  every  hue^  of 
the  heavens,  in  every  grace  of  the  flowers.  And,  above 
all,  when  we  look  on  men,  the  outward,  the  fleshly, 
cannot  stay  or  entangle  our  insight.  We  see  straight 
through  to  the  world  within,  correspondent  to  our  own 
hold  on  God.  Each  man  is,  to  us,  no  mere  shell  of 
some  unknown  self,  whose  character  we  can  but  grope 
after,  and  guess  at,  from  the  outside  workings  which  our 
understanding  detects  and  analyzes.  Eather,  it  is  this 
outside  show  which  is  to  us  incidental,  and  but  half 
understood.  It  is  the  inward  self  which  we  know  far 
better,  know  with  a  certainty,  a  closeness,  a  familiarity 
which  cannot  be  gainsaid.  It  is  with  the  inward  soul 
that  our  soul  holds  high  and  sure  communion.  Can  we 
doubt  it  ?  Why,  we  start  with  the  immediate  fact,  that 
that  man  before  us  is  not  merely  what  our  carnal  mind 
sees  him  to  be — a  thing  of  outward  shape  and  tangible 
stuff — but  a  living  character,  whose  vivid  existence  is 
passed  in  a  world  we  cannot  ever  see,  or  touch,  or 
even  dream  of  putting  under  a  microscope;  a  world 
made  up  of  his  mother's  love  for  him,  his  sister's  tender- 
ness, his  wife's  sympathy,  his  own  hopes,  fears,  courage, 
sorrows,  anger,  passion,  despair.  That  is  the  real  world 
in  which  he  lives  and  moves,  in  comparison  with  which 


The  Spiritual  Eye.  159 


the  outward  world  is  thin,  and  vague,  and  shadowy.  And 
do  we  not  knoiu  the  inner  world  of  this  ?  Is  it  not  just 
the  very  thing  we  can  know  best  ?  Have  we  not  com- 
plete and  unfailing  entry  into  the  very  heart  of  it  ?  And 
if  we  enter  it,  as  we  may,  every  step  we  take  towards 
fuller  knowledge  of  it,  increases  the  interest,  the  impor- 
tance, the  vividness  of  his  individual  personality :  if  we 
know  him,  as  his  mother  or  his  wife  knows  him,  he 
would  stir  with  his  personal  presence  the  whole  round 
and  scope  of  our  vision  :  and,  my  brethren,  we  have  to 
know  him,  as  his  priest ;  to  know  him,  as  he  floats, 
the  centre  of  all  this  living  movement  of  feeling,  and 
thought,  and  love,  and  passion,  in  the  unwavering, 
all-penetrating  light  of  God's  eternal  eyes, — to  know 
him  better  than  wife,  or  mother,  as  one  whose  whole 
being  is  only  known  when  seen  to  be  hanging  still 
upon  the  inbreathing  and  sustaining  Spirit  of  God. 
To  us,  he  is  a  holy  thing  ;  a  living  soul,  knit  in  and  in 
with  our  souls  into  the  Being  of  God,  a  thing  God 
loves,  as  verily  as  his  mother  loves  him ;  for  whom 
Jesus  is  anxious  with  all  the  anxiety  of  a  brother ;  round 
whom,  and  through  whom,  is  moving  and  stirring  all 
that  vast  world  of  most  real  life,  which  is  bound  by  the 
gold  chain  of  the  Holy  Ghost  about  the  heart  of  Him 
Who  is  Infinite,  the  Father  of  Spirits  and  the  Lord  of 
Souls. 

Then,  secondly,  for  ourselves  !  We,  ministers  of  God, 
have  got  to  strive  to  make  our  entry  sure  and  easy 
into  the  spiritual  life  of  others :  we  are  ambassadors  of 
its  spiritual  Chief:  we  are  to  emphasize  before  men 
the  reality  of  this  world  they  live  in,  and  yet  so  terribly 


i6o 


The  Spiritual  Eye. 


forget :  and,  if  so,  if  we  are  to  impress  men  with  the 
reality  of  our  embassy,  we  ourselves  must  be  sure  of 
our  credentials ;  we  must  be  ready  to  show  them  clearly 
and  unhesitatingly,  with  unmistakable  assurance  of  faith. 
The  ease  of  our  entry  into  men's  souls  must  obviously 
depend  on  this  clearness ;  and  this  clearness,  dear 
brethren,  can  only  be  the  outcome  of  our  own  intensity 
of  living  faith  in  our  mission,  faith  in  the  reality 
of  the  spirit  world  with  which  we  deal.  This  faith 
must  be  to  us  ministers,  at  least,  no  casual  garment, 
kept  hidden  for  Sundays  and  church,  or  hurried  on 
suddenly  at  the  call  to  a  deathbed.  It  cannot  be  to  us 
a  shy,  retiring  secret,  which  we  timidly  venture  to  take 
a  look  at  when  we  are  quite  alone.  This  will  never 
make  us  the  worthy  messengers  of  a  city  set  on  a  hill. 
By  this  we  can  never  become  as  candles  set  on  a 
candlestick.  The  ministry  requires  that  we  should  be 
sure  of  our  ground :  we  must  have  already  examined  it, 
and  found  it  sure  and  steadfast :  we  must  know  well  what 
we  are  at,  whence  we  come,  with  what  power,  with  what 
support:  we  must  be  continually  testing  our  contact 
with  the  life  of  God ;  continually  feeling  after,  and  touch- 
ing, and  grasping  hard  and  fast  the  everlasting  hands 
which  uphold  and  guide  us  and  the  world.  Our  witness, 
my  brethren,  before  men  depends  for  its  power  on  the 
clearness  and  force  of  our  own  inward  vision.  Our 
ministrations  of  spiritual  help  will  only  be  effectual 
means  of  grace,  when  they  are  no  hasty  and  abrupt 
efforts  to  bring  the  spirit-world  to  bear  upon  human 
life,  but  are  felt  to  flow  easily  and  naturally  out  of  the 
,    rich  abundance  of  God's  constant  fulness  of  presence 


The  Spiritual  Eye. 


161 


within  us.  The  very  Sacraments  we  administer  will 
find  a  surer  and  readier  way  opened  for  them  to  men's 
hearts,  if  they  are  seen  to  be  to  us  no  awkward,  ex- 
ceptional strainings  after  an  unfamiliar  spirit-life,  clash- 
ing almost  violently  with  our  daily  experience.  No, 
not  this ;  but  the  sure  expression,  the  steady  outcome  of 
a  life  lived  in  unbroken  communion  with  Him  Whose 
Sacraments  we  serve ;  with  Him  Who  is  to  us  as  real 
and  living  as  father  or  mother,  or  sister  or  brother; 
Whose  love  is  dear  and  familiar  as  the  sense  of  home  ; 
at  Whose  table  we  feed,  with  awe  and  humility,  indeed, 
but  yet  without  surprise,  without  constraint,  with  the 
quiet,  natural  freedom  with  which  we  delight  in  the 
tender  presence  of  a  beloved  friend.  And  it  is  because 
of  this  need  that  our  bishops  are  more  and  more  anxious 
to  summon  us  together  before  the  day  of  ordination,  to 
prepare  for  the  holiness  of  our  office,  in  that  we  are 
given  a  gift  which  is  not  to  be  hung  on  us,  as  an 
external  charm,  but  is  to  become  part  and  parcel  of  our 
whole  lives ;  to  suffuse  its  grace  throughout  every  vein 
and  nerve  of  our  being ;  to  take  possesion  of  us,  and 
dominate  our  every  impulse  and  thought ;  to  steep  our 
very  face  with  its  felt  presence,  so  that  men  may  never 
let  their  eyes  fall  on  us,  without  seeing  at  once  Whose 
we  are,  without  recognizing  and  realizing  the  vivid 
actualness  of  the  spirit-world  in  which  they  and  we  all 
live,  and  may  so  ever  and  ever  again,  each  time  they 
catch  sight  of  us,  lift  their  heads  from  their  toil  in  the 
world,  to  cry  aloud  in  joy  and  affectionate  remembrance, 
"  Verily,  the  kingdom  of  God  is  come  amongst  us. 
Surely,  we  are  called  a  holy  people,  the  redeemed  of 

L 


1 62  The  Spiritual  Eye. 


God,  the  City  of  the  Lord,  the  Zion  of  the  Holy  One  of 
Israel." 

This,  dearly  beloved,  is  the  call  of  our  priesthood. 
God  grant  us  grace  so  to  live  in  its  love  and  light,  so  to 
receive  with  care  and  patience  this  holy  unction,  that 
it  may  pass,  in  all  its  mystic  power,  into  our  heart  of 
hearts,  and  thence  spread  abroad  its  loveliness  over  our 
whole  lives,  that  men  may  be  bound  by  our  hands  into 
that  good  and  joyful  union  of  Christ's  Church;  that 
union  which  sheds  itself  down  through  us,  as  the  oint- 
ment upon  the  priests  of  the  old  covenant ;  that  precious 
ointment  upon  the  head,  "  that  ran  down  unto  the  beard, 
even  unto  Aaron's  beard,  and  went  down  to  the  skirts  of 
his  clothing;"  that  union  which  drops  down  from 
heaven,  as  dew  of  Hermon,  upon  all  those  who  can 
know  themselves  to  be  as  the  Hill  of  Zion,  no  mere 
earthly  height,  bearing  a  temple  made  with  hands,  but 
a  place  where  God  Himself  hath  promised  His  blessing 
and  life  for  evermore. 


SERMON  XL 

THE  BREAKING  OF  DREAMS. 
"  JISBalk  as  cljilorcn  of  ligljt."— Eph.  v.  8. 

We  men,  when  first  we  begin  to  discover  ourselves, 
find  that  we  have  been  born  into  a  world  that  is  but 
half  alive,  but  half  awake;  a  world  that  sleeps  and 
dieai us.  About  us  and  around  us,  there  works  without 
pause,  without  stay,  the  infinite  stir  and  movement  of 
Nature.  A  thousand  activities  push,  and  thrust,  and 
strive ;  a  million  sights  flash  in,  and  stand,  and  cease ; 
and  yet,  lively  and  brilliant  as  all  this  motion  seems,  it 
is  to  us  but  as  the  brilliant  and  changeful  life  of  a 
dream.  How  blind  are  its  workings !  how  little,  how 
slight,  how  momentary  our  hold  upon  them !  How 
vague,  how  unsteady  the  purpose  that  runs  through 
the  endless  sequence  of  changing  visions  !  Laws  there 
are,  underneath,  we  know,  stiff,  solid,  mechanical,  that 
govern  the  machinery  of  all  this  shifting  transforma- 
tion, but  how  little  their  law  tells  us  of  any  inner  secret ! 
Still,  it  is  a  dream-world  at  which  we  find  ourselves 
staring ;  a  world  which  becomes,  under  the  guidance  of 
Science,  more  dream-like  than  ever ;  a  world  of  things 
that  strive  and  thrust  unthinkingly,  aimlessly,  blindly  ; 
of  movements  that  hold  within  them  no  purpose,  and 
no  clue;  of  agencies  that  start  off  into  action,  under 


1 64  The  Breaking  of  Dreams. 


some  dull  impulsion,  and  simply  act  on  until  checked 
by  some  sudden  and  blank  obstacle.  All  meaning  is 
lost :  we  gaze,  and  gaze,  and  still  the  feverish  activity 
proceeds  in  the  same  wearisome  round  of  ceaseless  tran- 
sition, without  intelligible  beginning,  without  fixity  of 
purpose,  without  possibility  of  an  end:  we  look  on 
from  outside  it :  we  have  no  clear  part  in  it :  with  or 
without  our  looking,  still  its  wheels  whirl,  its  passion- 
less, unintelligent  working  goes  on  in  dumbness,  asking 
for  no  interpretation,  seeking  for  no  goal,  like  the  weary 
and  stupid  recurrence  of  some  horrible  nightmare. 

Nay !  the  poets  have  done  better  than  this  at  times. 
Under  their  inspiration  Nature  becomes  to  us  almost 
alive,  almost  awake.  Something  that  we  seem  to  know 
shines  out  upon  us  from  its  manifold  scenes  ;  its  loveli- 
ness seems  to  greet  us  with  a  living  welcome ;  its 
terrors  shake  our  souls ;  its  voices  break  out  into  articu- 
late speech ;  they  call,  and  we  almost  arise,  and  run,  and 
follow  after  the  flying  cries,  after  the  touch  of  these 
appeals.  And  yet  how  momentary  is  its  speech  !  how 
elusive  the  shining  of  its  face  !  We  look  round,  and  it 
is  gone.  We  stop  and  listen,  and  lo  !  the  cry  has 
ceased.  Not  one  clear  undoubted  word  breaks  the 
silence  of  those  starry  skies.  There  they  watch  and 
wait,  those  thousand  eyes  of  the  night ;  and  we  think  for 
a  moment,  as  they  strike  in  upon  us,  in  sudden  hours  of 
feeling,  that  they  have  tongues,  and  can  tell  what  is 
hidden  ;  and  yet  there  is  neither  speech  nor  language  ! 
As  we  look,  they  fall  back  into  their  ancient  secrecy : 
we  can  make  nothing  of  thern.  The  hills  that  •  stand 
together  in   solemn   gatherings,  while,  all   day,  the 


The  Breaking  of  Dreams. 


165 


shadows  of  the  scudding  clouds  pass  softly  over  them ; 
tbe  w  oods  that  lie  bathed,  hour  after  hour,  in  the  flood- 
ing moonlight,  through  still  summer  evenings;  these 
move  lis,  and  move  us  most  deeply ;  and  yet,  can 
anything  be  more  dreamy  and  untangible  than  the 
charm  which  they  lay  upon  us  ?  What  is  it  ?  Where 
is  it  ?  Is  it  in  them  ?  Do  they  mean  it  ?  Can  we  fix 
it  ?  or  can  we  ask  them  what  they  would  say  ?  Can  we 
put  out  our  hand  and  touch  ?  Nay,  if  we  snatch  at  it, 
it  is  gone  !  If  we  define  it,  it  eludes  !  It  is  but  some 
strange  breath  that  sighs  through  them  for  an  instant 
into  our  spirits,  and  lo  !  it  is  over,  and  the  hills  are  but 
dull  earth  again,  and  the  woods  are  but  blind  trees,  that 
stand,  and  grow,  and  decay  !  We  listen  to  catch  any 
sound,  but  it  is  as  if  we  were  watching  the  lips  of  a 
man  talking  in  his  sleep  :  the  talk  rises,  and  then  it 
relapses :  he  seems  to  be  muttering  words,  and  then 
sinks  back  into  broken  noise  :  we  strain  our  ears  in 
vain.  So  with  Nature :  it  seems  ever  on  the  point  of 
waking,  and  yet  it  ever  sleeps :  and  we,  too,  we  sink 
back  to  slumber :  we  turn  over  on  oui  bed  after  each 
faint  knocking  at  the  door,  and  that  is  all  for  most  of 
us :  we  are  not  roused  to  full  mastery  of  ourselves :  we 
are  not  set  moving  to  some  decisive  issue. 

And  if  we  turn  to  that  dim  animal  life  that  bustles, 
and  crawls,  and  leaps,  and  flies  on  every  side  of 
we  any  more  than  before  in  presence  of  a  world  awake  ? 
Active  and  incessant  as  is  the  motion  of  animal  life, 
it,  too,  surely  moves  as  in  a  dream.  It  is  pushed  along 
by  forces  to  which  it  is  blind,  under  which  it  is  passive : 
it  is  not  the  animal  that  is  active,  but  the  momentum 


1 66  The  Breaking  of  Dreams. 


that  is  lodged  in  the  animal.  It  itself  does  not 
occupy  and  possess  the  forces  that  stir  in  it,  hut 
they  occupy  it :  it  obeys  their  direction :  it  is  at  the 
mercy  of  their  propulsion.  If  they  are  strong,  and 
full,  it  goes  forward  ;  if  they  fail,  it,  too,  relaxes  and 
saddens.  It  never,  or  most  rarely  and  faintly,  can 
put  out  exertions  of  its  own,  to  control,  or  dominate, 
or  govern  the  unvarying  mastery  of  its  unquestioned 
instincts.  You  can  appeal  to  them  through  habit,  but 
you  cannot  appeal  to  it  itself,  for  it  lives  no  life  of  its 
own :  it  lies  passive  and  dormant,  and  over  it  pass  and 
change  the  moving  impressions,  to  which  it  offers  no  re- 
sistance, and  of  which  it  takes  no  stock  :  it  is  carried  by 
them  whither  they  will,  and  if  you  appeal  to  it  for  more, 
it  can  but  look  at  you  with  eyes  that  distressfully 
wonder  what  it  is  you  want.  No  new  change  ever  comes, 
no  shock  rouses  it  to  some  novel  and  eventful  start.  It 
is  shut  up  within  dead  and  unshaken  limits,  which 
no  outward  call  ever  shatters,  no  inward  effort  can 
ever  attempt  to  displace ;  and  this  is  the  life  of  a 
dream. 

And  we,  too,  we  men,  begin  life  as  in  a  dream.  A 
certain  momentum  has  been  thrown  into  us  at  our 
birth ;  a  certain  deposit  of  force  occupies  us ;  it  carries 
us  along  with  it.  We  move  under  it:  we  do  not 
question  it :  we  take  but  little  part  ourselves  in  the 
effort  of  the  movement.  The  forces  work,  and  we  let 
ourselves  go  with  them:  we  exert  ourselves  according 
to  the  measure  of  the  compelling  power:  we  push  our 
way  through  home,  through  school,  just  as  a  plant  that 
thrusts  itself  upward  into  the  light :  we  resist  oppres- 


The  Breaking  of  Dreams.  167 


sion,  as  it  resists :  we  clutch  at  the  profitable  occasions 
and  opportunities,  as  it  clutches :  we  work  our  way, 
but  we  are  but  half  responsible  for  the  way :  it  is  more 
that  the  powers'  within  respond  to  the  powers  without, 
that  the  good  instincts,  sharpened  for  us  by  long 
inheritance,  answer  to  the  touch  and  gentle  pressure  of 
outward  appeals ;  or,  again,  that  the  evil  passions  sweep 
over  us  like  a  flood,  if  others  undo  or  undermine  the 
dams.  Something  we  do  ourselves ;  but  it  is  but  dimly, 
and,  even  then,  it  is  under  the  force  of  outer  demands 
— the  demands  of  a  mother's  love,  of  a  father's  hopes,  of  a 
friend's  admiration  or  reproach.  Still,  we  trust  chiefly 
for  our  position,  for  our  success,  to  the  impulsive 
strength  of  such  powers  as  we  found  ourselves  to 
possess ;  they  are  enough  to  secure  us  our  place.  We 
lie  hidden  and  but  half  awake  within  them :  they  toil 
for  us,  they  bear  us  along :  we  are  not  called  upon  to 
renew  them,  to  set  them  going,  to  put  them  straight : 
they  work  fairly  and  well,  tbey  give  us  no  trouble: 
we  accept  what  they  effect,  we  follow  their  lead,  we 
are  passive  under  the  floating  influences,  that  weave 
our  life  :  we  ask  no  questions,  as  they  waft  us  from  stage 
to  stage,  encircling  us  with  some  strange  mystery  of 
woven  paces,  and  of  waving  hands. 

Nor  does  Oxford,  at  first,  altogether  break  the  charm 
of  this  strange  wafting,  of  this  mysterious  dream.  It  is 
true  that  the  brain  is  more  alive,  the  man  more  conscious 
of  himself ;  but,  I  think,  this  may  only  hide  from  us 
how  little  the  man  is  awake.  The  momentum  that  was 
thrown  into  the  man  at  birth  is  still  the  chief  propelling 
force.    Such  brain-power  as  he  finds  in  himself,  that, 


i68 


The  Breaking-  of  Dreams. 


indeed,  he  puts  out ;  and  puts  it  out,  how  ?  Well,  as  a 
weapon  chiefly  of  attack  or  defence :  an  endless  game 
of  battle  is  astir  all  about  him, — a  battle  of  wits,  and  into 
it  he  plunges  :  for  everything  tbat  comes  he  is  ready  with 
a  word,  with  a  joke,  with  a  criticism :  he  delights  in  the 
exhibition  of  this  readiness :  he  is  quick  to  all  intima- 
tion, to  all  suggestion :  he  flashes  out,  as  he  can,  when 
he  can :  he  plays  his  part. 

But  all  this  is  but  the  carrying  on,  in  the  intellectual 
region,  of  what  the  plant  in  the  tangled,  crowded  hedge- 
row does  in  one  way,  and  the  beast  in  the  crowded 
forest  does  in  another.  Still,  the  prompting  energy  that 
excites  and  sustains  all  this  activity,  wells  out  of  the 
deep  instinct  of  self-preservation.  The  thought,  the 
inspiration,  the  rapid  fancies,  come  swarming  up,  just  as 
of  old  the  feelings  had  swarmed,  the  man  hardly  knows 
whence  and  how.  He  is  content  that  they  should 
come,  that  the  supply  is  inexhaustible :  he  does  nothing 
to  prepare  :  he  exercises  but  little  foresight  or  prudence : 
he  husbands  nothing:  he  anticipates  nothing.  It  all 
happens  :  on  each  emergency,  at  every  crisis,  the  quick 
retort,  the  sharp  answer,  the  swift  parry,  the  dashing 
question,  drop  from  his  lips  :  they  turn  up,  they  appear, 
they  are  there :  they  come  without  trouble,  they  go, 
and  they  are  forgotten.  The  intelligence  produces  them 
instinctively,  spontaneously,  just  as  readily  as  eye-lids 
wink,  or  the  hand  leaps  up  to  ward  off  a  sudden  peril 
The  man  himself  is  borue  along  by  his  own  inbred 
energies:  he  is  their  prey,  their  possession.  When 
they  flow  strongly,  he  is  pleased  and  buoyant:  when 
they  languish  and  fail,  he  is  grieved,  and  despairs  :  but 


The  Breaking  of  Dreams. 


169 


he  is  not  in  action;  lie  does  nothing  ;  he  is  dependent 
on  what  happens;  he  leaves  things  to  occur:  if  the 
fancies  do  not  appear  when  he  expects  them,  if  the 
shock  of  circumstances  is  not  enough  motive  force,  he 
has  no  resource  within  himself.  He  does  nothing  to 
retrieve  matters :  he  goes  about  moody  and  down- 
hearted, until  back  the  good  stream  flows,  back  the 
great  tide  flows  in,  and  once  more  the  strong  currents 
lift  him,  and  he  lets  himself  go  whither  the  happy- 
wind  and  waves  will  beat  him.  Who  does  not  know 
the  endless  delight  of  the  young,  in  simply  watching, 
noting,  recording  their  own  moods  ?  They  please  them- 
selves in  being  sad,  in  simply  analyzing  their  own 
tempers :  they  take  pride  in  their  feelings ;  their  mental 
changes  seem  to  themselves  full  of  inexhaustible, 
unutterable  interest.  Yes ;  because  they  are  still  so 
immersed  in  these  moods,  so  dependent  upon  them. 
These  moods  are  at  once  themselves,  yet  not  them- 
selves. They  can  observe  and  note  them  as  they 
appear  out  of  some  strange  abyss,  whither  no  eye  follows 
them  ;  but  they  have  no  plummet  yet  to  sound  that  deep 
abyss  ;  they  have  no  thought  of  changing,  of  varying,  of 
correcting,  of  transcending  these  blind  moods  as  they 
come.  Nay,  their  very  interest  lies  in  the  hidden 
mystery  of  their  coming  —  that  to-day  the  man  is  sad, 
he  knows  not  why ;  that  to-morrow  he  is  glad,  he  can 
as  little  tell  wherefore.  So  the  changes  of  mind  come, 
and  so  they  go,  good  or  bad,  quick  or  slow,  silly  and 
serious,  and  the  man  himself  is  their  victim:  he  attempts 
no  control  over  them,  he  lies  back  still,  and,  more  or 
less  lazily,  lets  his  eye  wander  along  the  moving  flight 


The  Breaking  of  Dreams. 


of  feelings;  find  all  are  equally  strange,  and  wonderful, 
and  uncanny,  and  unaccountable, — the  evil  as  the  good, 
the  sorry  as  the  joyful ;  he  sees  no  reason  for  the  one  more 
than  the  other;  he  looks  at  all  with  equal  interest.  He 
is  dreaming  on  still ;  his  life  is  but  a  changing  vision  ; 
he  is  not  his  own  master. 

Yes,  as  I  look  back  and  remember  the  old  days, 
when  I  was  what  you  are,1  they  seem  to  me,  in  contrast 
with  later  life,  to  wear  all  the  semblance  and  the  atmo- 
sphere of  a  dream.  I  was  floated  along  day  by  clay : 
I  awoke  to  find  the  current  flowing  under  me.  It  cost 
me  but  little  effort;  no  hard  shocks  interrupted;  up 
and  down,  in  freedom  and  ease,  the  ready  thoughts 
flew,  and  touched  everything,  and  for  a  moment  hung 
like  fluttering  birds,  and  then  had  flown  elsewhere. 
Everything  arranged  itself;  nothing  violently  obtruded; 
no  loud  call  for  strong  action  broke  in.  The  very  charm 
of  the  days  lay  in  their  easy  flow.  Everything  seemed 
to  be  at  our  service,  everything  was  possible  ;  no  harsli 
necessities  forced  upon  us  ungrateful  limits,  unpalatable 
truths.  The  mind  ranged  as  it  chose,  the  feelings  found 
large  room,  the  emotions  knew  but  slight  check  or  hitch; 
the  very  vastness  that  little  griefs  assumed  was  a  testi- 
mony to  the  rarity  of  the  larger  and  more  real  woes. 
We  never  looked  much  about.  Out  there,  beyond  the 
degree,  lay  some  future,  dimly  felt;  but  we  hardly  cared 
to  penetrate  its  dark  precincts.  Enough  for  us  to  notice 
and  observe  all  the  shifting  scene,  without  any  resolute 
desire  to  mend  it,  without  any  passionate  craving  to  know 
how  it  would  all  end.    It  was  the  variety,  the  change  of 

J  Preached  to  Undergraduates  in  St.  Mary's,  Oxford. 


The  Breaking  of  Dreams. 


171 


scene  itself,  which  was  continually  engrossing,  continu- 
ally stimulative,  continually  sufficient.  Why  trouble 
to  look  beyond  ? 

I  do  not  say  this  was  all:  there  were  resolutions 
made,  there  were  difficulties  to  master,  there  were 
moments  of  far-reaching  intention ;  but  these  were  not 
very  pressing,  not  very  salient,  not  very  overpowering; 
and,  in  contrast  with  what  I  know  since  then  of  life,  it 
is  the  passive  joy  of  a  vision  that  lies  about  those  past 
hours  !  I  feel  as  if  I  had  then  been  wafted  along  by 
unseen  powers,  or  if  I  had  been  walking  in  a  dream, 
an  unsubstantial  fairy-place,  haunted  by  a  flying  cry, 
that  passed  from  hill  to  hill,  an  invisible  thing,  a 
voice,  a  mystery,  after  which  I  followed  without  any 
violent  anxious  distress,  that  it  should  still  elude  my 
chase,  without  any  bitterness  of  angry  disappointment, 
tli at  it  should  remain  a  hope— a  love  still  longed  fur, 
never  seen. 

"Walk  as  children  of  the  light,  and  of  the  day." 
What  is  it  to  awake  ?  What  is  it  that  shatters  the 
dream  ?  When  does  the  break  come  ?  Let  me  ask  a 
counter-question  first;  it  may  help.  Why  is  it  that, 
as  we  explore  the  records  and  writings  now  brought  so 
wonderfully  and  delightfully  nigh  to  us  of  ancient  faiths, 
as  we  roam  up  and  down  their  strange  and  varied  stories] 
—why  is  it  that,  rich  as  is  their  splendour,  and  noble 
as  is  their  range,  yet  to  pass  from  them  to  the  Jewish 
Testament  is  like  passing  from  a  world  of  dreams  into  a 
world  of  daylight  ?  Those  old  faiths  here  get  hold  of  the 
same  matter  and  stuff  as  the  Jew,  but  they  fumble  it 


The  Breaking  of  Dreams. 


about  with  such  uncertain  hands,  with  such  a  wavering- 
will.  Now,  they  seem  to  have  gripped  it,  and  a  word 
leaps  out  that  thrills,  as  the  old  Bible  texts  thrill ;  and 
then,  again,  on  the  very  next  line,  is  some  odd,  fantastic, 
unworthy  imagination. 

And  yet  they  seem  quite  unconscious  of  the  gulf  that 
divides  their  best  from  their  worst :  it  all  seems  to  them 
alike ;  they  have  no  sure  canon  to  detect  and  divide  the 
weak  and  the  strong,  the  poor  and  the  noble,  elements  of 
their  belief.  Their  touch  on  high  subjects  is  so  unsteady 
as  to  seem  almost  unintentional :  their  greatest  sayings 
read  almost  like  guesses :  they  work  at  random,  now 
high,  now  low :  they  do  not  go  forward  with  any  firm 
and  unshaking  advance ;  rather,  they  do  not  seem  to 
move  at  all :  they  fall  back  as  often  as  they  go  forward, 
there  is  so  little  getting  on.  And  then  how  faint  and 
feeble-hearted,  in  most  cases,  is  their  application  to 
practice  !  They  intermingle  the  moral  and  the  immoral; 
no  sharp  lines  stand  out  dividing.  Their  hold  on  life  is 
slippery  and  vague. 

But  when  we  step  into  the  Jewish  Scriptures,  we 
find  ourselves  in  a  new  atmosphere.  We  are  in 
company  of  another  kind.  These  men  are  awake. 
Clear,  sharp,  strong,  and  sure  run  the  great  lines. 
They  permit  of  no  confusion,  no  fluctuating  hesitation, — 
a  single  aim,  a  single  purpose  dominates  the  whole. 
Here  good  and  evil  stand  out  like  black  and  white,  like 
clay  and  night.  And,  again,  here  is  no  standing  still ; 
a  steady  advance,  undaunted  and  assured,  is  made  from 
point'  to  point.  The  intention  clears  itself  from  alien 
matter ;  it  shows  itself  more  firmly,  more  largely.  For 


The  Breaking  of  Dreams. 


173 


the  sake  of  it,  under  the  impulse  of  its  heroes,  the  nat  ion 
rises,  and  walks  towards  a  goal  that  it  distinguishes, 
tow  ards  a  hope  that  grows  fairer,  a  promise  that  waxes 
strong,  under  a  covenant,  a  certified  rule,  a  manifest 
guidance,  a  pillar  of  fire,  a  rock  to  which  it  clings. 
Here  are  no  visionaries,  no  vague  dreamers ;  here  is  no 
fumbling,  no  insecurity  of  footing,  no  doubtfulness  of 
touch,  no  questioning  guesses,  pathetic  through  their 
very  wistfulness.  There  men  do  not  dream  of  other 
worlds ;  they  deal  with  this  earth's  hope,  in  its  solid 
groundwork,  in  its  downright  facts ;  they  detect  God ; 
they  see  His  handling;  they  demand  His  presence; 
they  act  by  His  law.  Yes,  these  men  are  awake.  The 
dream  is  broken ;  and  when  ? 

We  can  take  our  answer  from  St.  Paul,  from  St.  Stephen, 
from  the  Jew's  own  mouth.  Looking  back  on  the  dim 
past,  upon  those  masses  of  slumbering  people,  who  filled 
the  spaces  of  history,  one  moment  there  was  when  that 
Jewish  people  first  broke  their  sleep  among  the  sleeping- 
nations  ;  one  man  there  was  who  first  showed  himself 
distinctly  awake,  amid  a  world  of  dreams ;  one  man 
who  first  rose  out  of  his  bed,  and  looked,  and  saw,  and 
understood,  and  made  sure  of  his  aim,  and  gathered  up 
his  powers,  and  broke  with  his  past,  and  moved  out 
on  a  new  and  open  path. 

Abraham,  the  father  of  the  faithful,  the  friend  of 
God  !  from  him,  and  in  him,  they  dated  the  hour  when 
the  eyes  of  the  nation  were  opened,  and  they  ate  and 
drank,  and  saw  God ;  the  hour  when  they  slumbered 
no  more  in  the  night,  nor  sat  on  still  in  darkness,  nor 
wandered  in  the  shades  of  death,  nor  sought  after 


174 


The  Breaking  of  Dreams. 


wizards  that  peep  and  mutter,  nor  cried  any  longer  to 
lonely  watchers,  What  of  the  night  ? — the  hour  when 
first,  with  sure  and  faithful  ears,  they  heard  the  Word 
behind  them  saying,  "  This  is  the  way,  walk  ye  in  it," 
when  they  turned  unto  the  right  hand,  or  when  they 
turned  unto  the  left. 

Abraham,  the  first  that  broke  the  dream,  and  how  ? 
Three  points  there  are  I  will  shortly  notice.  First, 
the  Promise.  He  had  broken  loose  from  the  dreams 
that  flit  and  crowd,  the  busy  present  dreams  that  un- 
ceasingly come  and  go,  when  once  he  looked  through 
and  away  beyond  to  a  far-off  Divine  event,  towards 
which  the  whole  creation  moved,  a  purpose  to  be  finally 
achieved,  not  now,  but  in  the  far  years  into  which  all 
this  shifting  scene  of  human  history  was  slowly  and 
painfully  working.  He  would  see  it,  but  not  now ; 
he  would  behold  it,  but  not  nigh.  There  was  some- 
thing behind  the  dim  and  changing  present.  An 
intention,  a  promise,  a  blessing  was  at  work,  was 
moving,  was  ordaining.  Day  did  not  follow  day 
without  order,  or  advance.  History  was  no  endless 
round  of  unmeaning  efforts,  and  dark,  ruinous  collapses. 
There  would  yet  be  an  end.  There  would  yet  be  a  goal. 
It  was  pledged  and  sealed.;  in  the  Mount  of  God,  at 
Horeb,  at  the  end  of  the  long  journey;  after  all  the 
blind  striving  and  weary  waiting,  at  last,  at  the  Mount 
of  God,  it  would  be  seen ;  it  would  be  made  clear. 
Towards  that  day,  that  far  and  hidden  day,  his  whole 
heart  moved  out  in  resolute  faith.  He  reaches  out 
with  prophetic  soul.  For  the  hope  of  it,  he  broke 
loose  from  the  clinging  present,  from  the  bondage  of 


The  Breaking  of  Dreams. 


175 


daily  incident.  He  rejoiced  not  in  the  loud  clangour 
of  the  crowded  moments  as  they  passed,  but  he  rejoiced 
to  see  that  day  of  distant  and  dominant  promise,  and 
he  saw  it,  and  was  glad. 

And,  secondly,  the  Call.  Out  from  beyond  the  un 
resting  shift  and  shock  of  circumstance,  out  of  some 
deep  eternity  of  peace,  out  of  the  steady  and  motionless 
silence,  there  fell  upon  him  a  sound,  the  sound  of  a 
compelling  voice ;  there  broke  upon  him  the  felt  power 
of  an  imperial  will, — a  will  strong,  steadfast,  supreme, 
that  lifted  him  out  of  his  dreams,  and  set  him  upon  his 
feet,  and  bore  him  as  upon  wings,  and  drove  him  out 
of  the  slumbers  of  his  hidden  home  ;  and  he  went  forth 
he  knew  not  whither,  unmindful  of  the  country  from 
vi 'hence  he  came  out,  desiring  a  better  country,  looking 
for  a  city  not  made,  a  city  that  hath  foundations, 
whose  builder  was  God — that  God  of  glory  who  had 
smote  him  with  a  cry,  "  Get  out  of  thy  country  and  thy 
kindred,  and  come  unto  the  land  which  I  shall  show 
thee." 

The  Promise,  the  Call,  and  the  Patience  of  Faith. 
P>y  this,  thirdly,  he  was  delivered  from  his  dream  :  that 
faith,  unshaken,  undying,  free  from  all  the  rise  and 
fall  of  passion,  from  all  the  gladness  or  the  sorrow  of 
each  passing  hour :  a  faith  against  which  the  present, 
with  its  mobile  fancies  and  its  disorderly  impressions, 
fell  powerless  and  beaten,  as  billows  that  foam  away 
their  broken  strength  upon  a  rock;  a  faith  that 
staggered  not  when  the  winds  stormed  and  rain  fell ; 
that,  against  hope,  believed  in  hope ;  nor  considered 
his  own  body  now  dead,  neither  yet  the  deadness  of 


176  The  Breaking  of  Dreams. 


Sarah's  womb.  Yea,  "staggered  not  at  the  promise 
of  God  through  unbelief,  but  was  strong  in  faith, 
giving  glory  to  God,  that  what  He  had  promised 
He  was  able  to  perform."  Patient  faith  !  That  faith 
which  in  His  children  never  wholly  failed,  even  when 
they  were  smitten  with  the  plague  of  dragons  or 
covered  with  the  shadows  of  death :  that  faith  which 
"  subdued  kingdoms,  wrought  righteousness,  stopped  the 
mouths  of  lions,  quenched  the  violence  of  fire,  through 
weakness  was  made  strong : "  that  invincible  faith, 
victorious  in  disaster,  which,  "  though  the  fig-tree  did  not 
blossom,  neither  was  fruit  found  on  the  vines,  the 
labours  of  the  oblve  failed,  and  the  fields  yielded  no 
meat,  though  the  flock  were  cut  off  from  the  fold, 
and  there  were  no  herds  in  the  stall,  yet,  in  dauntless 
loyalty,  could  still  rejoice  in  the  Lord,  could  glory  in 
the  God  of  its  salvation." 

My  brethren,  we  may  walk  as  the  children  of  the 
light,  as  children  of  our  father  Abraham.  Here  is  the 
waking  of  the  spirit,  of  that  spirit  which  alone  bursts 
the  hazy  vision  of  the  dreamful  days.  We  wake  as 
he  woke.  We  are  waking,  when,  first,  through  the 
shifting  play  of  ever-moving  forces,  under  which  and 
in  which  we  lie  half  passive,  borne  along  as  in  a  boat 
on  some  underlying  flood,  content  to  watch  and 
notice  all  that  comes — content  with  just  that  effort 
that  ensures  our  own  boat's  safety,  and  keeps  it  in 
the  full  current — content  to  enjoy  the  sweet  ease  of 
motion  when  it  is  given,  pining  with  powerless  dis- 
appointment, when  the  eddies  whirl  us  into  dull  back 
waters  and  blind  corners,  waiting,  sick  and  impatient, 


The  Breaking  of  Dreams. 


177 


until  some  happy  chance  discovers  us,  and  wafts  us 
once  more  into  full  and  flowing  waters — we  wake,  I 
say,  when  in  upon  us,  thus  dreamy  and  inert,  there 
opens  suddenly  the  hope  of  a  larger  promise  than  the 
run  of  days  bring  with  it :  a  promise  larger  than  our- 
selves, though  involving  ourselves :  a  promise,  it 
may  he,  seen  afar  off ;  hut  yet  a  promise  towards 
which  we,  and  all  our  fellows,  are  moving,  with  set 
purpose,  under  the  inspiration  of  some  motive  force 
that  grows  and  dominates  the  whole  mass  of  humanity: 
a  promise  of  better  things,  of  nobler  aims,  of  purer 
hands,  of  more  steadfast  peace  than  we  now  can  know :  a 
promise  in  which,  if  not  we,  yet,  at  least,  our  children's 
children  shall  be  blessed ;  in  which  blessing  to  come, 
we,  from  afar,  even  though  we  receive  it  not  within 
this  our  little  day,  can  afford  to  rejoice,  content,  our- 
selves, to  be  as  pilgrims  and  strangers  that  walk  through 
homeless  ways  towards  a  city  that  hath  foundations, 
and  will  abide:  a  promise  that  shall,  indee'd,  be  no 
visionary  ideal,  but  a  solemn,  sober  fact  on  this  our 
own  earth,  on  that  far  day,  to  those  born  of  our  own 
blood,  to  men  and  women  like  ourselves ;  men  and 
women  like  those  who  now  grieve,  and  weep,  and  die, 
fast  bound  in  misery  and  crime.  Who  of  you  does 
not  begin  to  know  this  awakening  ?  Who  of  you  has 
not  already  felt  the  stir  within  his  heart  of  that  high 
destiny  towards  which  we  move,  the  prophetic  touch 
of  that  hidden  day  when  children  shall  no  longer  pine 
in  hopeless,  joyless,  loveless  homes,  maimed  and  dis- 
figured by  pain  and  crime ;  when  men  shall  no  longer 
fall  bruised,  and  crushed,  under  the  fierce  and  grinding 

M 


1 78 


The  Breaking  of  Dreams. 


pressure  of  a  civilization,  which  is  to  them  one  long, 
dark,  and  perplexing  riddle ;  when  poor  women  shall 
no  longer  sink  under  the  tyranny  of  men's  reckless  and 
horrible  lusts  ?  This  is  the  promise — that  such  a  day 
there  might  be ;  that  sin  is  no  necessity,  nor  misery 
the  real  law  of  our  life.  And  the  sense  of  this  promise 
is  to  each  of  you  a  call,  a  call  as  real  and  living  as  that 
which  drew  Abraham  out  of  Charran,  and  would  not 
let  him  bide  in  Ur  of  the  Chaldees.  The  spirit  that  is 
in  you  responds  to  that  call :  you  know  that  the  world 
may  be  bettered,  that  the  world's  anguish  may  be 
relieved ;  and  bettered  through  you,  relieved  through 
you! 

You,  who  once  have  felt  the  power  of  the  promise, 
may  never  relapse  into  dreams,  may  never  content  your- 
selves again  with  old,  easy  acquiescence,  with  the  light- 
hearted  on-looking.  Nay !  it  is  you  whom  the  loud 
call  summons  to  be  up  and  doing ;  to  push  through  the 
hedge  of  tangling  circumstance,  and  reach  out,  by 
prayer  and  action,  to  that  far  joy ;  to  walk  in  the  light 
of  that  hope,  in  the  strength  of  that  single  purpose;  to- 
walk,  and  work,  and  strive,  held  and  girt  by  the  strong 
will  of  God,  and  carried  whither  you  know  not,  only 
you  know  that  it  is  towards  the  glory  of  that  great  day. 
Hazy  no  longer,  vague  no  longer,  you  have  gripped 
the  purpose  of  your  life :  you  may  know  now  the  sin 
of  sloth,  sloth  so  unsuspected,  so  unnoticed,  in  the 
days  of  your  dreams :  you  begin  to  know  the  horror 
of  moral  evil,  the  devilish  force  of  the  adversary :  you 
are  restless  and  awake  with  a  holy  and  earnest  fury  of 
zeal:   you   may  know  the  sting  and  strain  of  the 


The  Breaking  of  Dreams. 


179 


thought  that  drove  our  Lord  to  encounter  the  perils  of 
hostile  Jews.  "  Are  there  not  twelve  hours  of  the  day  ? 
Work  while  it  is  day,  lest  the  night  come  when  no  man 
can  work." 

Work  !  Work  for  men  and  for  God  !  Work,  and  you 
are  awake ;  and  work  not  merely  when  the  impulse 
warms  you,  and  the  hope  carries  you  forward,  and  the 
heart  moves  freely ;  but  work  when  the  soul  sickens, 
and  the  eye  is  heavy,  and  the  limbs  waste,  and  the 
blood  runs  slow  and  dull;  when  the  momentum  of 
youth  slackens  and  fails,  and  the  inspirations  die  away, 
and  you  see  your  clear  path  no  more,  and  the  shadows 
thicken,  and  the  clouds  darken,  and  the  dark  day  of 
relief  becomes  even  more  and  more  impossible.  The 
spirit  that  sinks  under  these  trials  is  still  passive,  still 
but  half  aroused,  still  lost  in  dreams.  Did  you  fancy, 
then,  that  it  was  yon  who  would  do  the  great  deed ; 
that  it  was  you  who  could  bring  in  the  good  day ;  that 
in  your  failure  the  whole  promise  fails  ?  Yet  Abra- 
ham, our  father,  staggered  not  through  unbelief,  when 
through  faith  he  offered  Isaac,  in  whom  alone  the  pro- 
mise could  be  fulfilled — Abraham,  who,  against  hope, 
believed  in  hope,  that  he  might  become  the  father  of 
many  nations.  Have  faith  !  The  spirit  that  is  awake 
walks  in  faith,  the  faith  of  those  of  old  who  died  in 
faith, — died  without  a  sign  of  that  great  blessing,  died 
stoned,  sawn,  slain,  tormented,  not  having  received  the 
promises,  but  only  seeing  them  very  far  off,  and  yet 
were  persuaded  of  them,  and  yet  embraced  them,  and 
yet  never  went  back  to  that  country  from  whence  they 
came  out,  that  country  of  dreams,  but  confessed  them- 


i8o 


The  Breaking  of  Dreams. 


selves  to  be,  not  possessors  of  the  inheritance  for  which 
they  toiled  and  stiove,  but  only  pilgrims  and  strangers 
moving  toward  a  city,  which  God,  and  He  only,  in  His 
good  time,  will  prepare  for  them.  Walk  in  faith,  for 
so  alone  does  the  Spirit  keep  its  grip  on  the  call  that 
first  broke  its  slumber.  In  the  face  of  the  awful 
wickedness  that  desolates  and  devours  our  cities,  faith 
alone  can  hold  fast  the  hope  set  before  us. 

And  faith,  the  faith  of  Abraham,  the  faith  which  stag- 
gers not  at  the  sight  of  its  own  dead,  powerless  flesh,  nor 
at  the  deadness  of  Sarah's  womb,  this  unstaggering  faith 
in  the  goodwill  and  strong  hand  of  an  indomitable  God, 
whither  must  it  end  ?   Whither  must  it  at  last  lead  us  ? 

"  Tour  father  Abraham  rejoiced  to  see  that  day ; 
and  he  saw  it,  and  was  glad."  So  spake  the  Christ, 
the  Child  of  Promise.  Dearly  beloved — you  who, 
it  may  be,  know  not  the  full  assurance  of  Christ, 
but  only  the  first  awakening  of  the  Spirit;  you  who 
now  feel  only  half  dimly  the  compulsion  of  a  great 
hope,  have  faith  in  that  hope :  have  faith,  enduring, 
patient  faith  ;  and  then  to  you,  as  to  the  Jew, 
that  hope,  now  so  indistinct,  so  faint,  will,  God  grant, 
grow  clear,  and  full,  and  plain.  Each  failure  of  yours 
will  but  deepen  your  sense  of  God's  needfulness ;  each 
despair  of  yours  will  but  cry  out  for  Him  Who  is  seen 
coming  from  Edom  with  dyed  garments  from  Bozrah, 
only  then,  when  He  has  looked,  and  there  was  none  to 
save,  when  He  has  marvelled,  and  there  was  none  to 
uphold.  You,  too,  will  know  the  passion  o£  prayer, 
that  calls  upon  a  God  Who  will  rend  the  heavens,  and 
come  down :  and  as  you  learn  more  deeply,  year  by 


The  Breaking  of  Dreams.  1 8 1 

year,  the  horrible  corruption  of  that  ghastly  evil,  which, 
wash  as  we  will  in  Jordan,  no  tears  seem  ever  to  wipe 
out,  no  penitence  to  undo  or  put  away,  your  hope 
will  consummate  itself  in  that  faith  which  looked  and 
saw  a  man  stand  at  the  end  upon  the  earth,  to  whom 
it  uttered  its  last  triumphant  cry  :  "  Behold  the  Lamb 
of  God,  Which  taketh  away  the  sin  of  the  world  ! " 


SERMON  XII 


SHEEP  AND  SHEPHERD. 

"  jFor  judgment  2  am  come  into  tfjis  foorln,  that  tbcjj  tobicli  sec  not  migljt 
sec ;  ant)  tljat  tfjcg  toljich  sec  migljt  be  mane  blini." — St.  John  ix.  39. 

Turc  chapter  taken  for  this  morning's  lesson  is  one  which 
is  proverbially  familiar ;  it  calls  up  memories  and  pic- 
tures which  have  haunted  the  heart  of  the  Church 
since  her  first  sweet  childhood  in  the  Roman  Catacombs, 
and  which  still  touch,  with  ever-recurring  grace,  the  soul 
of  each  fresh  child  that  grows  up  under  the  power  of 
Christian  inspiration.  Yet  the  chapter  itself  is  full  of 
confusing  associations ;  its  metaphors,  its  analogies,  its 
suggestions,  cross  and  recross  each  other  with  bewilder- 
ing swiftness ;  the  thread  of  its  connection  is  hard  to 
track  with  any  steadiness  or  security. 

We  start  with  the  allegory  drawn  out  of  the  blind 
man's  healing, — the  keynote  of  its  lesson  is  first  started 
by  the  paradox  of  my  text.  It  is  caught  up  by  the 
question  of  the  Pharisees,  "  Are  we  blind  also  ? "  It  is 
carried  on  by  the  still  deeper  paradox  of  our  Lord's 
answer,  "  If  ye  were  blind,  ye  should  have  no  sin :  but 
now  ye  say,  We  see ;  therefore  your  sin  remaineth," — 
and  before  we  have  had  time  to  read  this  hard  riddle, 
we  are  led  off  abruptly  to  new  ground,  to  changed 
scenes.    It  is  no  longer  the  blind  guides  with  whom  we 


Sheep  and  Shepherd. 


183 


are  dealing:  we  have  thrown  our  eyes  out  from  the 
Temple  Courts,  and  over  to  Olivet,  and  we  are  looking 
at  sheepfolds  with  their  securing  walls,  and  it  is  thieves 
and  robbers  who  are  now  the  symbols  of  evil  leaders, 
climbing  into  the  fold  by  violent  and  self-chosen  ways. 
Our  Lord  is  no  longer  the  Healer  of  the  blind ;  He  is 
now  the  one  Way  of  sure  and  acknowledged  entrance. 
He  is  that  which  embodies  all  authority,  all  recognised 
privilege,  all  lawful  rule ;  He  is  the  Door,  through  which 
entry  is  assured  by  unhesitating  right,  without  anxiety, 
or  scrapie,  or  suspicion.  He  is  the  Door,  Whose  posts 
are  the  posts  of  Righteousness,  and  over  Whose  threshold 
lies  Peace, — Peace  on  the  shepherd  who  knows  himself 
at  home,  and  in  accepted  paths ;  Peace  on  the  porter 
who  openeth  with  glad  welcome  to  the  well-known 
steps ;  Peace  on  the  sheep  who  look  up  at  the  familiar 
coming,  and  move  under  the  remembered  voice,  and 
pass  out  without  fear  behind  the  feet  of  him  who  goeth 
in  and  out  freely  through  this  Door  of  secure  possession. 

And  as  we  ponder  over  this  imagery,  it  changes  under 
our  very  eyes :  the  picture  of  the  pleasant  peace  of  the 
sheepfold  has  brought  forward  the  image  of  the  Shep- 
herd, who  goes  to  and  fro  from  fold  to  pasture,  and, 
even  as  our  gaze  rests  upon  Him,  He  has  become  the 
chief  figure  in  the  parable,  He  gathers  up  into  Himself 
the  fulness  of  the  scene.  No  longer  the  Healer  of  the 
blind — no  longer  the  Door — our  Lord  is  now  the  Shep- 
herd Himself,  the  Good  Shepherd  that  knows  His  sheep, 
and  is  known  of  them  ;  and  the  Pharisees,  the  evil  ones, 
are  now  no  longer  the  blind  guides,  nor  the  robbers 
climbing  over  the  wall ;  but  they  are  changed  into  the 


1 84  Sheep  and  Shepherd. 


hireling  with  the  craven  soul,'  whose  very  nature  it  is 
to  leave  the  sheep  when  the  wolf  cometh ;  the  hireling, 
who  has  no  living  hond  with  his  cure,  who  has  lent 
himself  out  for  sordid  purposes,  who  cannot  therefore 
know  the  intense  unity  that  knits  a  man  to  that  which 
is  his  own,  cannot  realize  that  which  is  not,  and  who 
lieeth  for  this  one  and  all-prevailing  reason,  "  because 
he  is  a  hireling." 

And  the  believers  who  were  once  in  the  picture  as 
the  blind,  who  confess  that  they  cannot  see,  they  have 
now  become  the  sheep,  who  hear  the  voice  and  know 
it ;  and  still,  at  the  last,  the  spirit  of  the  whole  manifold 
image  is  once  more  altered  and  heightened  by  that 
exalted  refrain  which  places  the  secret  of  all  this  unity 
between  the  Shepherd  and  the  sheep  in  that  death  under 
the  jaws  of  the  wolves,  which  He  will  undergo  Who 
careth  indeed  for  the  sheep.  The  sheep  know  well  the 
voice  of  Him  Who  will  die  to  save  them.  "  The  Good 
Shepherd  is  He  Who  giveth  His  life  for  the  sheep."  "  I 
am  the  Good  Shepherd;"  "I  lay  down  My  life  for  the 
sheep." 

I  cannot  attempt  this  morning  to  tie  together  all 
these  threads  of  thought,  but  I  should  like  to  try  to 
suggest  some  main  connections  that  underlie  the  general 
change  of  metaphor  from  the  blindness  to  the  sheepfold. 
Why  are  we,  we  for  whom  these  things  were  written, 
why  are  we,  first,  the  blind  to  whom  our  Lord  came  that 
they  might  see  ?  and  why  should  He  then  so  quickly 
liken  us  to  the  sheep  who  hear  His  voice,  who  know  the 
sound  of  that  Shepherd  Who  is  ready  to  die  for  them  ? 

Let  us  begin  with  our  Lord's  first  words.    He  starts 


Sheep  and  Shepherd.  185 


with  the  supreme  fact  of  the  Incarnation.  He  has 
"  come  into  the  world  " — come  to  it,  not  risen  out  of  it : 
He  is  an  arrival  from  without :  He  comes  to  meet  the 
world :  He  brings  to  it  new  powers,  something  that  it 
had  not  before — new  hopes  and  a  novel  purpose ;  and 
such  an  arrival  from  without,  in  offering  itself  freely  to 
all  who  can  recognise  it,  cannot  but  create  a  judgment, 
says  our  Lord, — a  sifting  of  "those  who  can  see  it  from 
those  who  cannot.  And  who  are  those  who  will  see  it  ? 
Why,  not  those,  surely,  whose  vision  is  bounded  by  the 
narrow  compass  of  this  world.  The  sight  to  be  seen  is 
one  that  comes  from  beyond  the  world ;  and  a  sight 
demands  some  sympathy,  some  unity,  some  kinship 
between  itself  and  the  eye  which  sees  it.  The  sight, 
then,  of  our  Lord's  coming  can  only  be  seen  by  those 
who  have  already  some  receptive  faculties  by  which 
light  may  be  shed  upon  their  souls  from  that  far  land 
from  which  He  comes.  They  must  be  possessed  of  some 
kinship  to  that  sunny  world  without  and  beyond  the 
world,  where  God  is  the  Sun,  and  the  Lamb  is  the  light 
thereof.  Without  such  touch  of  sympathetic  com- 
munion, the  eye  would  remain  blank  to  all  the  fair 
colour  that  shone  in  the  dancing  of  that  light  oi  life, 
however  close  it  might  come,  however  richly  it  might 
pour  its  wealth  of  radiance  over  it. 

Yet  how  can  this  communion  be  ?  How  can  we  keep 
the  eyesight  of  our  souls  ready  for  the  Advent  of  this 
sight?  Eyes  live  by  use;  unused,  they  shrink,  and 
wither,  and  grow  dark.  How,  then,  can  we  use  them 
upon  a  world  so  far,  the  world  beyond  our  world,  th° 
world  in  which  we  are  not  ? 


Sheep  and  Shepherd. 


True,  indeed,  that  we  cannot  now  look  in  upon  that 
glorious  land,  or  fill  our  eyes  with  its  light,  or  feed  our 
sight  on  its  lovely  colouring.  Alas  that  it  should  he 
so !  It  need  not  have  been ;  for,  indeed,  that  land  is 
very  near ;  it  is  nearer  to  us  than  the  very  world  that 
we  think  we  live  in ;  it  is  more  verily  the  home  in 
which  our  spirits  would  even  now  abide,  than  any 
earthly  homes  will  ever  be.  It  is  these  earthly  homes 
that  are  far  away,  and  strange  to  our  real  self.  It  is 
this  sweet  land  of  spiritual  peace,  that  might  be  so  close, 
so  familiar,  so  akin.  But  sin  has  clouded  our  eyes,  and 
dulled  our  seeing.  Sin  has  eaten  out  our  kinship  to 
that  eternity ;  sin  has  wasted  us ;  sin  has  exiled  us ; 
sin  has  made  it  most  alien,  most  strange,  most  unreal 
to  us.  Sin  has  driven  us  out  from  its  joy,  and  has  left 
us  banished  in  a  world  that  imprisons  us  in,  with  flam- 
ing swords  at  every  gate,  and  hard-set  barriers  of  sense. 
Our  Lord  does  not  deny  this :  it  is  because  of  this  that 
He  is  come ;  but  yet  the  imperative  law  holds  good,  no 
spiritual  light  for  those  who  have  no  spiritual  eyes ! 
How  can  this  law  stand  sure,  and  yet  our  Lord's  coming 
be  discerned  by  those  who  have  no  sight  to  perceive 
whence  He  is  ? 

One  way  remains,  and  one  way  only.  Man  has 
blinded  himself,  it  is  true :  he  has  ruined  his  spiritual 
senses ;  but  still  one  thing,  at  least,  is  left  him — he  is 
not  so  ruined  that  he  may  not  know  his  own  blindness. 
He  has  lost  the  use  and  habit  of  seeing  eternal  things  ; 
but  he  is  the  same  man  still,  possessed  of  the  same 
possibilities,  created  for  the  same  end  as  ever,  endowed 
lor  the  same  Divine  Life.    The  faculties  are  there,  how- 


Sheep  and  Shepherd.  187 


ever,  unused  and  deformed.  He  has  the  eyes,  though 
they  cannot  see  ;  and,  in  recognising  this  his  disaster,  in 
recognising  that  he  lives  here  in  this  world,  with  powers 
unworked,  with  functions  that  can  never  be  fulfilled 
through  sin,  with  senses  that  nowhere  now  can  be 
enjoyed,  he  lias  already  passed  out  beyond  the  borders 
of  this  earthly  habitation,  of  this  sin-clouded  sky;  he 
lias  proved  his  inner  kinship  with  that  other  land, 
which  yet  he  cannot  see.  His  very  sense  of  this  life's 
blindness  establishes  his  right  to  be  a  citizen  of  the 
Eternal  Light,  his  openness  to  the  Advent  of  Him  "Who 
bringeth  the  Day-spring  from  afar  ! 

Yes  !  "  I  am  come  into  this  world,  for  judgment,  that 
they  who  see  not  may  see  ! "  They  can  receive  the  new 
Gift ;  for  to  them,  blind  as  they  are,  it  is  still  allied ;  in 
them  it  can  still  find  a  point  of  contact,  a  door  of 
entrance.  But  there  is  a  blindness  worse,  far  worse, 
than  this ;  the  blindness  which  does  not  know  itself, 
the  blindness  which  believes  that  it  sees.  The  man 
who,  looking  round  and  about  himself  and  the  world  he 
lives  in,  pronounces  that  he  sees  his  way  through  it, 
that  everything  required  is  within  his  ken, — who  finds 
no  faculty  fad  him,  who  misses  no  expected  capacity, 
who  detects  no  blank  spaces,  no  breaks  of  darkness,  no 
collapse  of  power,  no  emptiness  of  fulfilment  within  or 
without, — the  man  who  is  conscious  of  no  loss,  of 
nothing  wanting,  who  finds  himself  fitted  with  all  the 
senses  necessary,  and  needs  none  beyond,  and  feels  at 
home  with  what  is,  and  has  no  misgivings,  no  doubt 
about  his  own  clear-sighted  apprehension  of  things — 
what  can  be  done  lor  him?    "What  good  can  be  brought 


i88 


S/iccp  and  Shepherd. 


him  from  a  land  far  off?  What  significance  has  an 
advent  from  elsewhere  for  him  ?  What  entrance  can 
the  Eternal  Light  find  in  him  ?  What  can  avail  to 
pour  down  upon  him  the  splendours  of  the  Heavenly 
Country  ?  He  has  no  faculties  alive  to  receive  them, 
and  not  only  this,  but  he  has  no  sense  of  alliance,  of 
kindred  communion  with  any  world  to  which  he  is  not 
alive.  Not  only  are  his  spiritual  faculties  unused  and 
dead,  but  he  has  no  consciousness  of  possessing  any 
dead  and  unused  faculties.  He  is  content,  he  is  not  on 
the  alert  for  any  new  thing;  yet  he  could  not  be  so 
contented  if  there  was  any  energy  yet  sleeping  in  the 
disused  organ  of  life.  No  !  it  is  died  out  utterly ;  it  is 
gone:  and  not  God's  own  Beauty  can  attract  that 
which  is  dead.  There  is  nothing  for  God  to  appeal  to, 
nothing  to  recreate,  nothing  to  enlighten,  nothing  to 
assist.  This,  then,  is  the  judgment,  that  the  Light  comes, 
and  that  His  very  coming  proves  that  some  men  have 
no  eyes  that  can  see  Him ;  and  this  is  the  sin  judged, 
not  blindness  that  cries  for  the  light, — blessed,  most 
blessed  is  such  blindness  ! — but  blindness  that  declares 
itself  to  be  unmaimed,  unthwarted,  undimmed ;  blind- 
ness that  feels  itself  self-sufficient,  and  asks  for  no 
better,  and  relies  confidently  on  its  own  powers,  and 
believes  itself  to  be  seeing  what  it  was  meant  to  see. 
This  is  the  fatal,  the  irrevocable  evil :  "  If  ye  were  blind, 
ye  had  had  no  sin :  but  now  ye  say,  We  see ;  therefore 
your  sin  remaineth." 

And  the  sheep, — what  of  them  ?  what  has  blindness 
to  do  with  them  ? 

Surely,  now,  it  is  plain.    If  there  is  anywhere  in  all 


Sheep  and  Shepherd.  189 


the  living  world  a  contrast  with  the  confident,  self- 
reliant,  self-sufficing  individualism  of  man's  natural 
understanding,  where  should  we  find  it  so  vividly  realized 
as  in  the  temper  of  a  flock  of  sheep  ?  We  laugh  at 
their  stupidity:  they  are  a  proverb  for  weakness,  for 
docile  dependence,  for  silly  herding  together.  Quite 
true :  such  laughter  may  he  perfectly  right,  and  genuine, 
and  innocent.  But  our  Lord,  as  His  creating  eye  fell 
upon  them,  saw  portrayed  in  them  one  quality,  one 
principle,  one  gift,  which  endowed  them  with  a 
peculiar  crown  of  grace,  and  has  made  them,  for  all 
time  and  in  all  lands,  the  symbol  of  lively  and  tender 
community,  of  sweet  and  unruffled  serenity,  of  ideal 
fulfilment,  of  perfected  peace.  We  all  feel  the  charm  of 
the  beautiful  comparison,  as  it  sounds  through  page 
after  page  of  the  sacred  text :  "  He  maketh  Him  house- 
holds like  a  flock  of  sheep."  "  The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd  : 
He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures :  He 
leadeth  me  beside  the  still  waters."  "  We  are  the 
people  of  His  pasture,  the  sheep  of  His  hand.  He 
shall  lead  His  flock  like  a  shepherd.  He  shall  gather 
the  lambs  into  His  bosom.  He  shall  gently  lead  those 
that  are  with  young.  As  for  His  people,  He  led  them 
forth  like  sheep.  I  will  gather  the  remnant  of  My 
flock  out  of  all  countries.  I  will  seek  out  My  sheep,  as 
a  shepherd  his  flock,  out  of  all  places  where  they  have 
been  scattered  in  the  cloudy  and  dark  day.  I  will  feed 
them  in  a  good  pasture,  and  upon  the  mountains  of 
Israel  shall  their  fold  be ;  there  shall  they  lie  in  a  good 
fold,  and  in  a  fat  pasture  shall  they  feed  upon  the 
mountains  of  Israel.  Yea,  I  will  feed  My  flock,  and  I 
will  cause  them  to  lie  down,  saith  the  Lord  God" 


190  Sheep  and  Shepherd. 


So  the  beautiful  assurance  lived  on  in  the  prophetic 
heart  of  Israel,  their  dream,  their  joy,  their  unfailing 
prayer,  and  still,  as  storms  thickened,  and  ravage  de- 
solated, and  ruin  destroyed,  the  cry  after  their  blessed- 
ness repeated  again  and  again  the  old  words  that 
pictured  all  their  peace  :  "  Feed  with  Thy  staff,  0  God, 
the  flock  of  Thine  inheritance  that  wander,  scattered 
and  alone,  in  the  wood  !  Feed  them  once  more  on  the 
slopes  of  Carmel !  Let  them  feed,  0  my  God,  in  Bashan 
and  Gilead,  as  in  the  days  of  old  ! " 

What  is  it  that  is  thus  attractive,  thus  lovely  in  a 
flock  of  sheep  ?  It  is  just  that  wonderful  capacity  to 
rely  on  a  world,  on  a  life,  outside  their  own.  It  is  the 
bond  between  the  sheep  and  the  shepherd  that  has  such 
grace  in  our  eyes.  The  sheep  may  be  weak,  but,  at 
least,  the)'  are  not  shut  up  within  the  narrowness  of 
their  own  faculties,  their  own  powers.  By  a  Divine 
instinct,  they  detect  in  that,  to  them,  far  and  strange 
human  life,  a  marvellous  efficacy  to  guide,  to  control, 
to  aid,  to  bless.  It  appeals  to  them,  it  advances  towards 
them,  and  they  have  the  eyes  to  see  it;  they  know  not 
its  secret ;  they  have  never  penetrated  its  recesses,  but 
something  in  them  responds  to  it,  something  in  them 
fastens  upon  it,  and  they  answer  to  its  appeal,  they 
answer  with  absolute  and  unswerving  steadiness,  they 
completely  throw  all  their  trust  upon  it.  They  read  its 
mind,  they  follow  its  footsteps,  they  catch  sight  by  some 
hidden  sympathy  of  its  mysterious  and  awful  will,  they 
live  in  its  royal  and  gracious  supremacy.  This  is  why 
they,  of  all  animals,  possess  their  lives  in  peacefulness, 
and  are  the  type  of  minds  at  peace  with  God.    We  men 


Sheep  and  Shepherd.  191 


are  not  to  be  unreasoning,  inactive,  tame,  uninquiring, 
as  they;  but  one  good  thing  they  have,  which  has  won 
them  the  love,  the  instinctive  poetic  love,  of  all  man- 
kind ;  one  good  thing,  which  our  Lord  blessed  as  their 
glory,  and  has  forbidden  ever  to  be  taken  from  them, — 
the  power  to  find  their  strength,  their  life,  in  a  world 
that  is  not  their  own,  the  power  to  walk  freely  and 
gladly  in  the  might  of  the  unseen'  presence,  the  power 
to  keep  their  senses  open  to  lights  that  fall  from  far 
worlds,  to  impulses  sent  they  know  not  whenee,  to 
voices  sounding  from  elsewhere. 

My  brothers,  we  have  a  harder  task  than  the  beasts 
that  perish.  We  have  to  develop  individually,  we  have 
each  one  of  us  to  put  out  the  strong  energy  of  personal 
will,  the  force  of  an  inquisitive  reason.  We  are  bound, 
hand  and  foot,  to  this  task :  it  is  not  I  who  deny  this ; 
I  insist  upon  it :  I  demand  that  no  single  one  of  us 
should  refuse  to  take  it  in  hand.  I  want  to  stir  yon 
this  morning,  if  by  God's  grace  I  may,  to  realize  the 
necessity  laid  upon  every  one  of  us,  as  he  passes  up  out 
of  youth  into  manhood,  the  tremendous  and  inevitable 
necessity,  to  put  forth  the  highest  powers  that  are  in  us 
to  their  fullest  and  noblest  use.  And  it  is  just  because 
this  is  so,  just  because  no  one  of  us  may  sit  still  and 
idly  toy  with  life,  just  because  no  one  of  us  can,  with 
impunity,  delay  long  to  move  upward  and  work  onward, 
that  I  would  bring  before  you  the  need  of  your  recog- 
nising, as  the  ground  of  all  aspiration,  the  reality  of  a 
world  beyond  and  above  your  own,  towards  which  you 
are  to  move,  under  the  attractive  and  prevailing  power 
of  which  you  are  to  grow.    You  are  not  asked  to  be  as 


192  Sheep  and  Shepherd. 


sheep  that  follow  blindly  ;  your  will,  your  reason,  your 
conscience,  all  are  to  live,  all  are  to  be  made  strong ; 
this  is  not  what  I  deny,  this  is  perfectly  true ;  only 
they  are  to  live  a  life  of  growth,  of  advance ;  and  that 
means  they  are  not  yet  what  they  should  be.  Not  merely, 
that  is,  is  continually  new  material  to  come  under  our 
faculties  ;  but  the  faculties  themselves  are  continually 
to  develop,  continually  to  advance  to  better  stages,  con- 
tinually to  improve  in  efficacy.  They  are  not  put  into 
our  hands  full-formed  and  complete;  rather  they,  to- 
gether with  our  whole  being,  have  yet  to  be  made  real, 
have  yet  to  grow,  are  still  imperfect,  still  misshapen, 
still  are  in  their  childhood.  More  than  this,  their  very 
tendencies  upwards  are  now  twisted  and  enfeebled  and 
stifled ;  they  have  yet  to  be  re-made  out  of  corruption  ; 
they  have  yet  to  be  set  free  from  burden  and  bondage ; 
they  have  yet  to  renew  their  first  childhood,  and  there- 
fore it  is  fatal  to  limit  our  horizon  to  the  capacities  of 
our  present  faculties.  It  is  fatal  to  take  them,  as  they 
stand,  as  our  true  measure,  and  test,  and  gauge  of  life. 
It  is  fatal  now,  while  yet  we  are  incomplete,  while  yet 
we  are  corrupt,  to  suppose  ourselves  in  full  possession  of 
our  powers,  to  pronounce  unhesitating  judgments.  It 
is  deadly  to  say,  "  "We  see."  Deadly,  since  to  say  it 
is  in  a  moment  to  check  our  growth,  to  bar  our  advance, 
to  turn  the  key  on  our  spiritual  life,  to  stop  short,  to 
lose  all  movement,  to  paralyse  energy ;  from  that 
moment  the  chill  of  death  has  struck  us,  we  stiffen,  we 
wither,  we  shrivel  up  ;  soon  we  shall  have  ceased  to  be. 

Suffer  me  to  urge  this  upon  you1  whose  first  physical 
growth  is  passing  away,  and  upon  whom  manhood  13 

1  Preached  in  Christ  Church  Cathedral,  Oxford. 


Sheep  and  Slicplicrd. 


193 


coming ;  because  it  is  so  slight,  yet  so  terrible,  a  tempta- 
tion for  you,  to  stand  still,  to  fail  to  make  the  effort 
forward  to  the  higher  level.  In  boyhood  we  may  not 
think  much  or  seriously  about  any  further  life,  but  then 
during  all  those  younger  days  God  has  the  matter  more 
directly  in  His  own  hands.  He  does  not  ask  us  to  do 
much :  He  Himself  carries  on  our  life.  He  fills  us  with 
overflowing,  buoyant,  springing  energy.  No  fear  in 
youth  of  our  standing  still,  of  our  lacking  movement ; 
the  impulse  of  our  birth  from  God's  hands  is  still  upon 
us,  its  motion  has  not  yet  died  away  out  of  our  souls. 
But  with  the  end  of  boyhood  ends  too  that  first  natural 
movement  forwards.  God  stands  off  from  us  a  little 
more,  He  leaves  us  more  to  ourselves ;  we  ourselves 
are  to  do  more  towards  carrying  on  the  work,  towards 
sustaining  the  growth.  We  may  no  longer,  at  our  peril, 
trust  to  unconscious  advance  :  consciousness,  reflection, 
reason,  these  have  all  come  forward  now ;  these  are 
now  our  tools,  our  engines,  our  mechanism,  by  which 
we  are  to  fashion  our  destinies.  With  these,  or  with 
nothing,  must  we  set  to  work.  So  it  is  that  the  tempta- 
tion works.  We  stand  still  a  moment,  and  look  round, 
and  find  ourselves  in  possession  of  ourselves.  We  are 
in  our  own  hands,  it  seems,  to  do  what  we  will  with 
ourselves.  We  have  these  faculties  of  reflection,  we 
are  fitted  out  with  this  apparatus,  we  are  fully  equipped, 
we  can  examine,  we  can  consider,  we  can  judge,  we 
seem  self-sufficient,  we  are  content  with  our  gifts, 
we  feel  a  sense  of  power  in  recognising  our  mastery 
over  our  own  lives,  over  ourselves.  We  consider  our- 
selves complete ;  we  think  we  shall  always  remain  what 

N 


1 94  Sheep  and  Shepherd. 


we  are  at  this  moment,  with  the  same  tastes,  the  same 
likes  and  dislikes,  the  same  wants,  the  same  judgments. 
We  set  to  work  to  scheme,  to  plan  out  our  days,  to  map 
out  our  course.  We  throw  our  eyes  round,  and  seem 
to  sweep  the  whole  field ;  we  see  all  that  there  is  to  be 
seen,  all  that  will  ever  be  worth  seeing.  If  there 
is  anything  beyond,  elsewhere,  why  trouble  ourselves 
about  it  ?  We  are  dealing  with  this  present  life,  and 
with  it  we  feel  perfectly  at  home ;  it  lies  there  before 
us,  visible  from  end  to  end ;  we  can  go  up  and  down 
its  whole  length  and  breadth,  what  more  should  we 
desire  ?  We  can  pick  and  choose,  we  can  settle  what 
we  like  and  what  we  dislike.  If  we  like  anything, 
that  must  mean  it  is  intended  for  us  to  enjoy,  to  use, 
to  possess.  If  we  dislike  anything,  why  should  we 
trouble  about  it  ?    It  cannot  be  meant  for  us. 

Ah !  believe  me,  if  once  you  fall  into  that  temper, 
life  is  over  for  you  !  for  life  is  growth,  and  you  have 
ceased  to  grow !  To  judge  as  you  are  doing,  to  rely 
on  such  judgments,  to  feel  yourself  now  in  full  pos- 
session of  the  canon  of  truth,  or  of  moral  right, — now, 
while  you  are  incomplete,  unfulfilled,  at  the  start,  and 
not  at  the  end, — now,  while  you  are  still  stunted  and 
stifled  by  a  thousand  selfish  desires,  by  a  thousand 
unruly  passions,  disordered  vanities,  diseased  imagina- 
tions, moody  and  envious  discords — this  is  to  condemn 
yourselves  hopelessly  to  the  unchanging  prison-house 
of  selfish  lusts,  lusts  that  will  roam  for  ever  round  the 
naked  wall  that  you  yourself  have  built  round  your 
soul,  seeking  for  some  lost  fulfilment  that  can  never 
be  found  there,  since  it  has  fled  far  from  your  narrow 


Sheep  and  Shepherd.  195 


cell,  into  sunny  fields  where  flowers  are  ever  renewing 
their  delights,  and  rivers  for  ever  flowing,  and  winds 
are  free,  and  the  vast  world  moves  ever  onward  in 
motion,  and  beauty,  and  song.  This  is  to  condemn 
yourself  not  only  to  failure  and  death  here,  and  now,  in 
this  human  existence,  but  also  to  utter  ignorance  of  the 
healing  and  the  new  life  that  Christ  alone  can  bring 
you.  His  coming  into  the  world  must  cease  to  have 
any  meaning  for  you  ;  you  will  be  surprised,  or  proud, 
perhaps,  to  find  His  creed  fading  away  from  you,  as  a 
tale  with  little  meaning.  You  will  judge  it  to  be 
untrue,  for  it  will  fail  to  commend  itself  to  you ;  it  will 
fail  to  make  its  proof  clear.  How  should  it  not  fail  ? 
How  should  it  commend  itself  ?  What  meaning  can  it 
have  to  you  ?  It  speaks  of  new  things,  new  birth,  new 
growth,  new  life,  new  heavens,  and  a  new  earth,  such 
as  eye  hath  not  yet  seen,  nor  ear  heard,  nor  the  heart 
of  man  conceived.  No  !  it  has  nothing  for  you !  You 
have  no  want  of  it,  and  therefore  no  key  to  its  riddle. 
"  If  ye  were  blind,"  if  ye  knew  yourselves  heirs  of  far 
more  than  your  eyes  now  range  over,  children  of  a 
heavenly  country,  to  which  all  things  move,  but  to 
which  not  even  a  St.  Paul  after  a  lifelong  battle  with 
self  and  sin  may  ever  count  himself  to  have  attained — 
"  If  ye  felt  yourselves  blind,  ye  had  had  no  sin :  but 
now  ye  say,  We  see ;  therefore  your  sin  remaineth." 

"  My  sheep  hear  My  voice  : "  "I  know  Mine  own, 
and  My  own  know  Me : "  so  our  Lord  confidently  pro- 
nounces. We  are  His  sheep.  We  must,  if  we  would 
hear  His  voice,  be  as  His  sheep.  We  must  know 
ourselves  still,  grown  men  as  we  are,  to  be  dedicated 


1 96  S/iccp  and  ShcpJicrd. 


heart  and  soul  to  another  and  a  higher  than  ourselves, 
to  he  absolutely  in  His  hands,  absolutely  bound  over — 
impulse,  will,  reason,  feeling,  and  all — to  the  service 
and  good  of  One,  "Who  has  a  vaster  vision,  an  infinitely 
fuller  capacity  than  ourselves.  Do  not  let  us  be  afraid ; 
He  will  not  dwarf  us,  He  'will  let  us  use  all  our  gifts, 
reason  and  will, — these  we  shall  possess  in  full  play, 
for  they  are  His  tools.  But  they  will  be  used,  not  as  if 
already  perfected,  but  as  if  they  had  yet  to  grow  to  a 
far  higher  use,  to  a  far  nobler  purpose.  Our  desires 
will  not  be  crushed,  but  they  will  be  accepted,  not  as 
a  canon  of  right,  but  as  prompting  something  greater 
than  now  they  understand,  as  hints  of  a  purer  will,  as 
glimpses  into  a  better  land,  as  flying  lights  from  a 
clouded  sun.  Up  to  that  higher  guidance  we  shall  ever 
be  aspiring,  ever  hoping  to  be  shown  more  clearly,  to 
know  more  vividly,  to  seek  more  unfalteringly.  Up 
to  that  higher  service  we  shall  be  for  ever  moving, 
using  what  is,  only  as  a  step  to  what  shall  be,  devoting 
all  that  we  are  now  to  the  necessities  that  draw  us 
onward  to  a  purer  life,  to  a  less  selfish  end.  All  this 
will  have  become  possible,  if  only  we  can  yield  our- 
selves to  that  self-surrender  which  makes  a  flock  of 
sheep  under  their  shepherd  so  lovely  a  picture  of 
delicious  comfort,  of  endless  refreshment,  of  enduring 
peace. 

Self-surrender  !  Reliance  on  forces  stronger  than  our- 
selves. Self-sacrifice  !  Dedication  to  ends  greater  than 
our  own  happiness,  or  our  own  self-will.  Here  is  the  door 
of  God's  pasture.  Here  is  the  path  that  leadeth  down 
to  the  still  waters  of  eternal  joy.    By  passing  through 


Sheep  and  Shepherd. 


197 


this  door  we  feed,  we  grow  strong,  we  do  not  die.  Let 
us  but  refuse  to  be  content  with  ourselves,  refuse  to 
shut  ourselves  in  within  the  circuit  of  what  we  now  see, 
or  know,  or  plan,  or  want,  or  desire.  Let  us  but 
be  ever  on  the  alert,  ever  watchful  for  fresh  light, 
ever  looking  for  new  hopes,  ever  striving  after  a 
purer  life,  ever  feeling  after  a  larger  and  holier 
world,  ever  praying  for  a  hand  to  uphold,  for  a  power 
to  renew,  for  an  eye  to  govern  and  direct.  Let  us 
only  be  ever  expectant  of  a  door  that  will  open,  of 
footsteps  that  will  soon  draw  nigh.  Then,  the  Lord 
promises,  there  will  be  the  sound  of  His  coming ;  He 
will  come,  and  the  porter  of  our  soul  will  gladly  open, 
and  we  shall  see  our  dear  Master,  our  good  Shepherd, 
and  shall  hear  His  voice.  We  shall  understand  Him  : 
His  creed  will  not  be  so  dark  to  us ;  His  words  will 
no  longer  sound  unmeaning  or  obscure,  for  we  shall 
hold  now  in  ourselves  the  key  that  unlocks  the  mystery 
of  His  coming.  "We  shall  know  the  law  of  self- 
surrender,  and  by  that  very  same  law  He  appeals  to 
us,  by  that  law  He  offers  Himself  to  our  hearts.  He, 
too,  has  surrendered  Himself  to  the  necessities  of  the 
virgin's  womb ;  He,  too,  has  fulfilled  the  law  of  self- 
sacrifice,  and  therefore  it  is  that  we  are  at  one  with 
Him,  that  we  understand  and  accept  Him,  in  that  He, 
the  good  Shepherd,  is  one  who  surrenders  Himself,  and 
lays  down  His  life  for  His  sheep.  So,  by  the  power 
of  this  sympathetic  identity  of  life-principle,  we  shall 
feel  His  presence ;  our  eyes  will  be  opened,  and  we 
shall  see  Him;  our  ears  will  be  loosed,  and  we  shall 
hear  His  voice :   He  shall  speak  and  call  us  all  by 


198  Sheep  and  Shepherd. 


name,  and  we  shall  hear,  and  know,  and  follow,  and 
shall  pass  out  behind  His  blessed  feet,  out  from  the 
narrow  fold  which  had  for  so  long  shut  in  our  ex- 
pectancies, our  aspirations,  our  desires,  out  into  pas- 
tures, where  grows  the  fresh  green  grass  that  springs 
up  for  evermore,  by  streams  that  flow  on  unendingly 
with  the  water  of  inexhaustible  life.  God  of  His  mercy 
bring  us  all  to  that  gracious  and  abiding  home  1 


SERMON  XIII. 


LOVE,  THE  LAW  OF  LIFE. 

"  CIjou  sljalt  lobe  the  Horo  tljg  ©oo,  ana  tfjg  neighbour  as  tfjjstlf." 
— St.  Luke  x.  27. 

What  a  strange  and  startling  command,  to  be  ordered 
to  love !  We  can  understand  obedience  in  a  thousand 
matters :  we  can  allow  and  justify  an  order  to  do  this, 
or  to  do  that :  we  might  even  go  so  far  as  to  concede 
the  right  to  dictate  what  we  should  think  and  believe, 
so  ignorant  are  we  of  the  reality  of  things,  so  dependent 
on  the  condescension  of  wiser  and  holier  men :  but  love! 
Love,  surely,  is  the  one  thing  we  cannot  but  retain  in 
onr  own  possession :  love,  at  least,  we  fancy,  is  our  own : 
into  its  recesses,  into  its  deep  privacy,  who  is  there  that 
will  dare  to  penetrate  without  our  leave  ?  Why,  we  our- 
selves hardly  venture  to  intrude  upon  the  hidden  places 
of  our  own  affections !  they  escape,  and  thwart,  and 
baffle,  and  elude  our  own  inward  grasp :  we  ourselves 
cannot  presume  to  control  them,  so  quick,  so  subtle,  so 
indeterminate  is  their  movement:  they  choose  their 
own  path  :  they  defy  all  expectation,  all  prudence,  all 
convenience,  all  intelligibility.  We  may  advise  and 
wai  n  them  as  we  will :  they  do  not  listen :  they  start 
out  when  we  least  desire  it :  they  hang  back  when  we 
are  urgent :  they  laugh  at  rule,  and  system,  and  arrange- 


200 


Love,  the  Law  of  Life. 


meut.  We  like  this  man,  we  cannot  tell  why  :  we  hate 
that  one,  we  cannot  help  it.  It  is  no  use  talking:  no 
one,  so  we  plead,  is  answerable  for  his  likes  and  dis- 
likes. 

And,  if  self-dictation  over  the  heart  is  impossible,  as 
we  suppose,  who  is  the  master  that  can  pretend  to 
command  us  to  love  him  ?  What  tyrant,  in  his  most 
imperious  moments,  ever  dreamed  of  such  a  demand  ? 
Let  him  ask  anything  but  this,  if  he  will ;  but  here,  at 
least,  he  reaches  his  limit :  his  thunders  and  threats 
may  do  the  worst,  they  cannot  touch  us :  our  love,  at 
any  rate,  is  free  and  unassailable.  Yet  God  assumes 
the  entry  even  of  this  last  refuge,  this  secret  home : 
even  hither  He  penetrates  with  His  searching  decrees : 
He  lays  down  laws,  He  makes  personal  claims  :  "  Thou 
shalt  love  Me."  It  is  a  rule  of  His  dominion  that  He 
should  be  loved.  Nor  is  it  to  be  merely  a  vague  good- 
will that  we  are  bound  to  give  Him :  nothing  general, 
or  loose,  or  impersonal,  or  impassionate  will  satisfy 
Him :  it  is  vivid,  impetuous,  enthusiastic  personal  love 
that  He  orders  us  to  feel  for  Him :  nothing  short  of  this 
will  do  at  all :  love  without  limit,  love  without  reserve, 
love  without  a  rival,  love  without  an  end,  this  is  His 
rule,  the  law  of  His  state :  "  Thou  shalt  love  Me  with 
all  thy  heart,  with  all  thy  mind,  with  all  thy  soul,  and 
with  all  thy  strength."  Nor  is  this  all :  our  affections 
have  yet  more  demands  made  upon  them :  not  only  are 
they  to  be  concentrated,  in  all  their  force,  upon  the 
Lord  of  this  kingdom,  but  they  are  to  be  distributed 
far  and  wide,  over  the  whole  length  and  breadth  of 
the  dominion :  this,  too,  is  to  be  done  by  order :  we 


Love,  the  Law  of  Life. 


20I 


are  under  command  to  love  every  brother-man  equally 
with  ourselves :  this,  too,  it  appears  can  be  dictated 
to  us. 

And  these  two  laws,  directing  our  love  to  God  and  our 
brother,  are  no  general  pieces  of  advice :  they  are  real 
penal  laws,  with  sanctions  and  punishments  attached : 
they  are  rigorous  necessities,  on  the  breach  of  which 
follows  inevitable,  irresistible  doom.  Unless  we  do  so 
love,  in  some  measure  at  least,  we  are  shut  out  from  the 
kingdom:  we  are  cast  into  the  darkness  outside  the 
palace  and  the  feast.  Only  on  the  condition  of  our 
loving  His  Son  will  the  Father  enter  in  and  abide  with 
us :  "  He  that  loveth  not "  is  to  abide  in  death  :  Who- 
soever hateth  his  brother  is  convicted  of  murder ;  and 
no  murderer  hath  everlasting  life. 

Love  of  God — love  of  our  neighbour :  these  constitute 
the  sole  titles  of  admission,  the  sole  claims  on  life: 
without  these  there  is  no  entry.  We  may  plead  a  hun- 
dred other  obediences :  "  Lord,  we  have  taught  in  Thy 
Name,  and  in  Thy  Name  done  many  mighty  works : " 
but  no !  no  other  obedience  is  of  any  avail  whatever : 
tin  <nigh  the  barred,  relentless  gates  sounds  the  unforgiv- 
ing voice,  "  I  never  knew  you !  depart  from  me,  ye 
cursed  ! "  One  command,  and  one  only,  has  been  given, 
"  Thou  shalt  love  ! "  "  On  this  one  command  hang  all 
the  law  and  the  prophets  :  "  there  is  no  other :  "  This  is 
My  commandment,  that  ye  love  one  another :  if  a  man 
will  love  Me,  My  Father  will  love  him :  he  that  loveth 
Me  not,  keepeth  not  My  words:  these  things  I  command 
you,  that  ye  love  one  another." 

One  tiling,  then,  certainly  Christ,  our  King,  presumes 


202 


Love,  the  Law  of  Life. 


to  do :  He  presumes  to  have  the  entire  command  of  our 
affections. 

What  can  justify  such  a  claim  ?  Why  are  we  to  he 
compelled  to  love  any  one  ?  Why  is  it  not  the  act  of 
an  unendurable  tyranny  ?  How  is  it  not  a  contra- 
diction in  terms,  to  command  love  for  oneself  by  law  ? 

Let  us  consider,  first,  who  it  is  who  demands  love  of  us. 
It  is  our  Maker  :  He  Whose  fingers  fashioned  the  inner- 
most fabric  of  our  souls,  Whose  very  breath  it  is  that 
makes  us  instinct  with  free  and  enjoyable  life.  He 
made  us,  not  by  any  binding  necessity,  nor  yet  for 
any  play  or  pastime  of  His  own,  but  solely  because 
the  very  core  of  His  innermost  Being  is  Father- 
hood :  He  is  God,  because  He  is  the  Eternal  Father : 
the  Fatherhood  is  His  Godhead. 

Now,  perhaps,  we  see  daylight.  For,  even  here  on 
earth,  fatherhood  is  assumed  to  necessitate  love :  it  is  ab- 
normal and  monstrous  when  these  twain  are  severed : 
so  that,  as  a  fact,  we  do  not  really  think  love  to  be 
so  incapable  of  rule  and  law  as  at  first  we  supposed : 
for  we  assume  that  it  follows,  as  a  rule,  the  necessities 
of  natural  relationship. 

Why  ?  Why  should  we  make  demand  upon  love,  that 
it  should  show  itself  under  the  strict  limits  of  the  family? 
Why  should  it  be  bound  to  appear  within  the  lines  laid 
down  for  it  by  the  conditions  of  flesh  and  blood  ? 

Because  the  conditions  which  constitute  the  family 
are  identical  with  the  conditions  that  constitute  love. 
The  sense  in  the  father's  heart,  that  he  has  been  enabled 
to  let  life  flow  out  from  himself,  and  to  put  life  into 
another,  so  that  he  himself,  is  no  longer  alone,  shut 


Love,  the  Lata  of  Life. 


203 


up  within  himself,  content  with  himself,  satisfied  with 
self-existence,  hut  has  called  another  into  heing  to  share 
his  life,  and  joy,  and  movement,  and  freedom:  this 
sense  of  expansion,  of  glad-giving,  of  self -participation, 
of  condescension,  of  open-handed  enlargement,  of  gene- 
rous self-surrender — all  this  which  constitutes  father- 
hood, what  else  is  it  than  love  ?  How  is  true  father- 
hood separable  from  love  ?  Love  is  that  free  gift  of 
self  to  others,  that  delight  in  opening  the  treasures  of 
life  to  others,  that  longing  to  let  loose  all  the  gladness 
locked  up  within  the  narrow  bars  of  an  isolated  soul, 
so  that  it  may  no  longer  hug  its  lonely  happiness  to 
itself,  but  may  see  others  enter  into  its  joy,  and  walk  in 
the  light  of  its  surrendered  glory.    Love  is  Fatherhood. 

And,  again,  how  can  childhood  be  other  than  love  ? 

The  sense  of  sonship,  that  which  we  feel  in  being 
sons — what  is  it  but  the  delighted  recognition  that  all 
our  substance  is  instinct  with  living  attachments  to  a 
father  who  has  begotten  us :  that  from  him  we  are 
alive,  and  to  him,  therefore,  our  life  returns,  on  him 
it  depends,  to  him  it  clings  as  to  its  beneficent  maker, 
its  saviour,  its  continual  help ;  by  him  it  is  guarded 
and  assured,  for  his  joy  it  moves  and  is,  at  his  voice 
it  gladly  stirs,  under  his  call  it  leaps  into  action, 
for  his  sanction  it  faithfully  waits,  in  his  word  it 
lays  its  undying  trust,  to  the  wings  of  his  unfailing 
shelter  it  creeps  for  warmth  and  protection,  in  his 
eye  it  reads  its  sure  and  confident  security,  within  the 
compass  of  his  fostering  care  it  knows  itself  shielded, 
encouraged,  sustained ;  to  his  mould  it  instinctively  con- 
forms ;  to  fulfil  his  hopes  it  is  ready  and  eager  to  devote 


204 


Love,  the  Law  of  Life. 


every  passionate  impulse  of  loyal-hearted  service,  and 
to  save  him  from  disappointment  and  shame  it  would 
die  gladly  a  thousand  deaths. 

This  is  sonship :  this  is  the  natural  movement  of 
the  child,  and  this — what  is  this,  hut  love  ? 

Fatherhood,  then,  is  that  love  which  passionately  de- 
lights in  seeing  its  own  life's  joy  reproduced  in  another. 

Sonship  is  that  love  which  passionately  delights 
in  recognising  that  its  life  is  due  to  another,  belongs 
to  another,  is  dedicated  to  another. 

Love,  then,  is  a  natural  necessity  between  human 
parent  and  child :  and  love,  therefore,  belongs,  by  the 
same  necessity,  to  our  Divine  relationships. 

For  out  upon  us  that  mighty  Fatherhood  of  God 
has  poured  forth  its  abounding  treasure  :  into  our  souls 
His  fulness  has  flowed :  without  the  workings  of  that 
fatherly  love  of  His  we  should  not  be  here  on  earth 
at  all :  in  within  each  single  soul,  deep  below  all  its 
flying  fancies,  and  its  surface  feelings,  and  its  unsteady 
desires,  at  all  moments,  without  pause  or  slackening, 
the  pulses  of  that  great  passion  of  fatheiiiness  stir,  and 
feed,  and  quicken,  and  inspire  every  atom,  every  fibre, 
every  movement  of  our  living  selves.  Within  each  one 
of  us,  to-day,  hour  after  hour,  minute  after  minute,  the 
action  of  that  eternal  self-surrender  of  God  Almighty 
reproduces  in  us  His  own  image,  the  forces  set  loose 
by  that  Divine  affection  unceasingly  inflow,  inrush, 
invigorate :  whatever  our  heedlessness,  our  forgetfulness, 
our  sin,  that  labour  of  God's  may  never  falter ;  His 
affection  may  never  repudiate  or  forsake  its  handiwork, 
its  insistent  task:  it'  it  ceased  for  one  second,  we 


Love,  the  Law  of  Life. 


205 


should  have  crumbled  and  vanished  into  dust.  No ! 
our  Father  worketh  hitherto :  and  still  He  works,  still 
His  compassion  never  tires ;  still  He  pours  out  His 
life  to  make  our  life,  His  joy  to  make  our  joy ;  still 
His  creative  fingers  move  about  our  souls,  and  fashion 
out  of  His  Will  our  will,  out  of  His  earnest  expectation 
our  hope  of  blessedness :  in  His  breath  we  breathe,  in 
His  power  we  move  :  underneath  us,  without  fail,  now 
and  always,  His  everlasting  arms  uphold  us :  our  very 
characters  are  only  alive  in  the  illuminating  fire  of  His 
immediate  and  animating  Spirit :  nowhere — in  nothing 
— can  we  sever  ourselves  wholly  from  His  untiring 
activity,  from  His  unbroken  presence,  from  His  un- 
stinted affection  ;  and  it  is,  in  the  sanctioning  authority, 
in  the  undeniable  right,  of  this  His  irresistible  Father- 
hood, that  He  lays  upon  us  the  command  which  no 
living  soul  can  escape  or  refuse :  "  Thou  shalt  love  Me, 
the  Lord  thy  God;  thou  shalt  love  Me  with  all  thy 
heart,  and  all  thy  mind,  and  all  thy  soul,  and  all  thy 
strength." 

And  we,  too,  on  our  side — for  our  part — we  cannot 
for  one  instant  rid  our  souls  of  that  sonship  by  which 
they  belong  to  the  Most  High :  we  cannot,  try  all  we 
will,  we  cannot  shut  up  all  the  doors  and  windows  by 
which  our  spirits  look  out  beyond  the  narrow  house  of 
their  own  delight :  we  cannot  check  the  currents  of 
life  that  move  outward  from  within  our  hearts,  back  to 
that  great  ocean  which  is  their  everlasting  home.  We 
are  sons  :  the  sense  of  sonship  is  alive :  it  works  within : 
it  cannot  rest  in  itself :  it  feels  abroad  for  that  larger 
life,  from  which  it  came :  it  strains  outward  toward 


206 


Love,  the  Law  of  Life. 


that  overshadowing  kindliness,  that  sheltering  benignity, 
which  appeal  to  it  from  out  of  the  silences  of  Nature, 
and  speak  to  it  of  the  patience  and  the  tenderness  of  a 
father  that  begat  it:  for  this  it  yearns:  towards  this  the 
great  floods  bear  it.  Something  there  is,  higher,  holier, 
mightier  than  itself,  in  Whom  is  security,  and  power, 
in  following  Whom  is  life,  in  clinging  to  Whom  is  rest, 
in  serving  Whom  is  perfect  joy,  in  Whose  embrace  is 
the  peace  that  passeth  all  understanding. 

All  this,  inbred  into  our  very  blood  and  bone  by  the 
actual  necessities  of  our  creation — all  this  is  what  we 
are  by  the  very  fact  of  being  sons ;  and  such  sense  of 
sonship  is,  of  necessity,  love :  its  clinging  dependence 
on  another  is  what  we  mean  by  love :  we  cannot  feel 
our  sonship  and  not  love :  we  can  only  deny  the  need 
to  love  by  denying  the  fact  of  our  sonship.  If  we  could 
cut  out  of  our  souls  all  the  fibres  that  knit  our  very 
being  up  into  the  movement  of  God's  strong  and 
compelling  energies ;  then,  and  then  only,  might  we 
decline  His  demand  upon  our  love :  but,  as  long  as  we 
have  His  breath  in  our  nostrils,  His  quickening  fire  in 
our  nerves,  we  are  bound  over,  by  overmastering 
necessity,  to  His  invincible  appeal :  "  Thou  shalt  love 
Me,  the  Lord  thy  God :  "  "  My  son,  give  Me  thy  heart." 

"  Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God  ! " 

God  has  undeniable  right  to  this  demand ;  but,  alas  ! 
who  are  we  that  we  should  love  God  ?  What  possible 
meaning  has  this  love  to  us  ? 

We  go  our  own  way  ;  we  follow  our  own  tastes ;  we 
pick  our  way  along  the  world;  we  have  joys  and 
sorrows,  friends   and   foes,  of  our   own ;   we  make 


Love,  the  Law  of  Life. 


207 


interests ;  we  laugh  and  cry,  we  fail  or  we  succeed : 
all  this  fills  up  our  days,  and  occupies  our  minds ; 
and  where  is  there  any  room  for  the  love  of  a  far-away, 
invisible  God  ?  How  unreal  such  love  must  sound  to 
us,  in  comparison  with  the  pleasure  and  profits  of  this 
solid  and  companionable  earth  ! 

Yes !  it  is  a  strange,  hard,  surprising  request.  It 
falls  oddly  on  our  ears ;  it  sounds  thin,  and  alien,  and 
unfamiliar.  Yet  on  it  the  issue  of  our  lives  hang' 
God  has  no  other  test,  no  other  appeal.  It  is  vain  to 
plead  that  you  have  kept  moral,  or  that  you  have 
believed,  or  even  that  you  have  done  in  His  Name 
many  mighty  works . — "  Though  you  bestow  all  your 
goods  to  feed  the  poor,  or  give  your  body  to  be  burned, 
and  have  no  love,  you  are  nothing."  "  Thou  shalt  love." 
Thou  shalt  love  God  !  Thou  shalt  love  thy  neigh- 
bour. These  are  the  only  two  commands.  "  He  that 
loveth  not  never  knew  God :  for  God  is  Love." 

We  are  here  on  earth  to  find  out  what  love  means : 
and  all  true  love  begins  in  the  love  of  God  Who  loved 
us.  At  whatever  risk,  at  whatever  cost,  we  must  attain 
to  this  love.    How,  then,  to  put  some  meaning  into  it  ? 

We  have  found  out  that  love  is  the  necessary  and 
essential  outcome  of  our  true  nature.  If  we  were  living 
our  true  life — the  life  of  sonship  to  God — we  could  not 
help  loving.  Here,  then,  is  our  mode  of  controlling  and 
managing  this  love.  We  must  secure  and  foster  the 
conditions  of  our  sonship  ;  and  what  does  this  signify  ? 

It  signifies  this :  that  the  entire  movement  of  our 
lives  must  set  outward,  away  from  ourselves  j  for  we  are 
sons,  and  sons,  as  they  draw  their  life  from  another,  so, 


208 


Love,  the  Law  of  Life. 


too,  find  their  glory  and  delight  in  devoting  their  lives 
to  another.  The  first  act  of  sonship,  then,  is  faith. 
Faith  is  the  first  motion  of  the  soul  away  from  itself, 
away  from  its  own  interest  and  self-seeking,  hack  to 
God  the  Mighty  Giver.  Faith,  then,  is  the  germ  of 
love.  Once  let  the  current  of  the  will  be  set  running 
towards  God  in  faith,  and  the  whole  force  of  the 
passionate  soul  of  man  will  be  drawn  into  the  stream, 
will  pour  itself  along  the  channel  opened,  until  it  flows 
with  the  full,  swelling  flood  of  love.  In  faith,  the  eye 
of  the  soul  looks  away  from  itself :  in  love,  the  entire 
heart  follows  the  direction  of  the  eye.  Faith  must 
begin  :  there  is  no  love  without  faith :  the  soul's  motions 
remain  locked,  dammed,  and  barred,  until  faith  gives 
them  free  opening. 

Have  we  no  faith,  then,  faith,  the  first  sign  of  the 
sonship  within  us  ?  No  faith  ?  Ah,  surely  among  you,1 
from  whom  the  buoyancy  and  the  good  heart  of  young 
days  have  not  yet  been  withdrawn — you,  whose  fresh- 
ness of  spirit  the  world's  sins  have  not  entirely  soiled 
away — among  you,  I  may  rely  upon  it  that  my  words 
will  stir  and  rouse  some  living  sense  of  your  sonship, 
as  yet  unlost,  some  high  touch  of  faith,  as  yet  not 
wholly  vanished  away  !  You,  at  least,  have  aspirations, 
impulses,  intuitions,  that  startle  and  quicken:  you 
have  not  yet  clipped,  and  cut,  and  pruned  your  desires 
down  to  the  narrow  round  of  your  own  selfish  interest, 
your  own  private  good :  you  are  yet  indignant  when 
others  are  wronged,  when  wickedness  triumphs  and 
tramples :  you  are  yet  uneasy,  and  discontented,  and 

1  Preached  in  Christ  Church  Cathedral,  Oxford. 


Love,  the  Law  of  Life. 


restless,  if  the  round  of  the  week  brings  you  nothing 
but  your  own  gratifications. 

All  this  is  the  witness  of  your  sonship ;  this  is  the 
movement  of  faith.  The  soul  cannot  satisfy  itself  with 
itself:  it  seeks  some  higher  service :  it  is  issuing  out  of 
itself  in  pursuit  of  some  unseen,  unselfish  end :  it  feels 
that  life  to  be  unworthy  which  cares  more  for  itself 
than  for  any  other  thing  in  the  world. 

Come,  then,  trust  that  outward  movement !  Throw 
yourself  in  with  it,  move  with  it,  let  yourself  go.  Let 
no  cynical  scoff  check  it,  nor  any  disappointment 
defeat  it.  You  are  meant  to  be  disappointed,  until 
you  let  that  movement  discover  its  end  in  God.  By 
increasing  disappointment  you  will  learn,  not  to  distrust 
the  impulse  after  unselfishness,  but  to  trust  it  all  the 
more  entirely  as  your  guide  to  what  God,  your  Father, 
is.  That  impulse  of  self-surrender,  of  self-devotion, 
which  is  the  product  of  your  sonship,  cannot  rest  until 
it  finds  its  true  home  within  the  Fatherhood  of  God. 
It  is  because  you  are  His  son  that  you  instinctively 
long  to  give  yourself  up  to  some  higher  service  than 
those  of  your  own  desires. 

This  is  faith ;  and  let  me  say  that  it  is  because  Ave 
believe  this  sacrificial  impulse  of  faith  to  be  no  casual, 
accidental  fancy,  varying  with  each  varying  soul,  but 
rather  to  be  the  very  essence  and  life-blood  of  every 
single  human  being,  implanted  in  him  by  the  sheer 
character  of  his  creation,  so  that  not  one  may  claim  to 
be  without  it, — it  is  because  of  this  that  we  desire  so 
earnestly  to  make  chapel,  to  make  the  service  of  God, 
a  necessary  and  essential  part  of  our  life  here,  included 

o 


2  IO 


Love,  the  Law  of  Life. 


naturally  within  the  daily  business  of  earth  ;  just  because 
earth  is  not  earth  without  its  earnest  expectation  of  the 
glory  that  shall  be  hereafter ;  just  because  man  is  not 
man  without  his  aspirations  of  faith ;  just  because  man 
has  lost  his  manhood  when  he  ceases  to  feel  himself 
a  son. 

If  man  is  created,  if  man  is  a  son,  then  worship,  which 
is  the  rational  recognition  of  that  sonship,  is  as  much  a 
part  and  parcel  of  his  nature  as  breathing  is. 

Worship  is  the  exercise  of  faith — of  self-surrender. 
Worship  sets  our  sonship  in  action;  and  such  a  self- 
imposed  exercise,  in  some  form  or  other,  is  a  necessity 
of  human  nature :  for  we  are  left  to  manage  and  develop 
ourselves ;  and  if  we  neglect  to  use  any  part,  that  part 
will  give  way  and  die :  we  are  bound,  therefore,  if  we 
would  keep  our  sonship  alive  within  us,  to  give  it 
employment,  to  keep  it  in  use :  we  are  bound  to  pray 
and  praise.  We  can  no  more  neglect  these,  without 
damage  and  loss,  than  we  can  neglect  to  use  our  legs  or 
our  arms  with  impunity.  Faith  will  perish  out  of  our 
nature,  if  we  do  not  take  care  of  it. 

And,  again,  if  we  come  here  to  chapel,  let  it  be  clear 
why  we  are  come. 

We  are  come,  because  we  have  that  within  us  which 
leads  away  from  us  to  God;  that  within  us  which 
aspires  after  self-surrender,  after  the  high  and  devoted 
service  and  obedience  of  sons. 

How  pitiful,  how  hopelessly  wrong-headed,  then,  if, 
when  we  are  here,  we  bring  in  with  us  our  wretched 
self-conceits,  our  absurd  vanities,  our  affectations,  our 
self-regard,  our  idleness,  our  listless  indifference,  our 


Love,  tJie  Law  of  Life. 


2  I  I 


sleepy  self-content,  our  lolling  pride,  our  silly  and 
self-satisfied  complacency  !  We  are  here  on  purpose  to 
forget  ourselves ;  on  purpose  to  break  through  our 
vanities ;  on  purpose  to  wrestle  with  our  own  encum- 
bering idleness ;  on  purpose  to  have  something  in  our 
lives  which  strives,  and  strains,  and  struggles,  and 
aspires. 

There  is  so  much  in  life  to  drag  our  thoughts  clown 
to  ourselves ;  there  is  so  much,  above  all,  in  Oxford  life, 
to  make  us  self-conscious — conceited— -self-interested. 
At  least,  here,  where  we  profess  to  place  ourselves  under 
God's  immediate  Eye,  let  us  attempt  to  lose  ourselves. 
Let  us  strive  together,  one  and  all,  to  learn  the  humilia- 
tion of  our  sin,  to  look  up  to  the  glory  which  belongeth 
to  God  only,  to  throw  ourselves  at  the  feet  of  Him 
Whose  love  could  find  no  way  to  the  righteous  or  to 
the  self-contented,  to  listen  to  the  sweet,  low  voice  that 
calls  us  out  of  ourselves,  out  of  our  own  vanities,  out  of 
our  own  ease,  out  of  our  own  lustful  imaginations,  up 
to  the  higher  obedience,  up  to  the  humility  of  sonship, 
up  to  the  service  of  faith:  that,  so  nourishing  and  cherish- 
ing all  the  instincts  that  faith  sets  working  within  us, 
our  faith  may  slowly  perfect  itself  into  that  love  of 
God  which  loves  Him  with  all  its  mind,  and  all  its 
heart,  and  all  its  soul,  and  all  its  strength. 


SERMON  XIV. 


THE  BLESSING  OF  GOD  ALMIGHTY,  THE 
FATHEE,  THE  SON,  AND  THE 
HOLY  GHOST. 

"  I  IooferB,  ant)  brfjolS,  a  fcoor  toas  npetuti  in  ftcabcn."— Rev.  iv.  r. 

Whitsuntide  came,1  the  flush  of  new  life;  the  Spirit 
fell,  a  new  beginning  ;  man  looked  up,  and  found  a  new 
thing  in  his  midst :  and  the  especial  form  of  the  novelty 
lay  in  the  increase  of  communion,  of  intercourse,  of 
communication.  Men  had  been  isolated ;  now  they 
understood  each  other,  they  spoke  with  "  other  tongues." 
They  need  no  longer  remain  shut  up,  each  to  himself, 
narrowed,  cribbed,  confined;  but  something  larger, 
freer,  more  open,  broke  out  into  man's  utterance.  No 
more  "  barbarians,"  staring,  stumbling,  stammering ;  but, 
as  star  answers  to  star,  as,  in  that  speaking  silence, 
without  speech  or  language,  their  voices  are  heard  and 
understood,  and  a  sound  goes  out  into  all  lands;  so 
with  man,  eye  answered  to  eye,  and  tongue  moved  in 
sympathy  with  tongue ;  heart  and  hand  and  voice,  all 
stirred,  and  responded,  and  aided,  and  gave  accord. 
Everything  had  its  meaning,  everything  became  intelli- 
gible ;  man  had  at  last  got  the  mastery  over  language, 
just  because  he  had  got  the  mastery  over  the  human 

1  Preached  on  Trinity  Sunday. 


The  Blessing  of  God  Almighty.  213 


soul.  Words  became,  indeed,  acts  of  the  soul,  they 
throbbed  with  instinctive  life,  they  were  alive  with 
spirit. 

As  at  any  great  crisis,  so  pre-eminently  here ;  under 
the  sway  of  this  supernatural  energy,  men,  amid  all 
varieties  of  character,  found  their  point  of  union  :  they 
broke  through  all  that  sundered,  they  all  heard  and  under- 
stood "  in  their  own  dialects  "  the  wonderful  works  of  God. 

But  not  only  have  men  found  words,  found  a  new 
language  in  which  to  understand  each  other ;  not  only, 
when  before  his  brethren,  does  the  Spirit  give  him 
utterance ;  but  also,  as  he  lifts  his  eyes,  as  he  stands 
before  the  Great  King,  as  he  feels  the  vast  pressure  of 
the  Holy  Presence,  his  tongue  moves  with  new  power, 
his  lips  frame  new  and  strange  sounds,  communications 
pass  and  repass,  communion  is  open  and  free ;  a  fresh 
utterance  breaks  out,  a  larger  intercourse,  God  and  man 
become  more  intelligible  the  one  to  the  other;  He  and 
we  understand  each  other  better,  a  new  name  is  spoken, 
a  new  speech  springs  up ;  that  which  before  was  dark 
and  concealed  and  unutterable,  now  shows  itself  and 
finds  itself  a  voice. 

Age  after  age  man  had  striven  to  find  a  word  by 
which  to  name  God.  Each  fresh  manifestation  had 
brought  with  it  a  fresh  intelligence,  and  called  out  a 
fresh  name,  yet  still  there  was  restlessness,  still  incom- 
pleteness, until  the  great  wind  blew,  and  the  whole  house 
shook,  and  the  fire  leaped  down,  and  sat,  and,  filled  with 
joy  and  splendour  as  with  new  wine,  men  caught  sight 
of  that  final  vision,  in  which  all  is  sealed  and  per- 
fected ;  and  as  their  eyes  gazed,  and  hung,  and  watched, 


2 1 4        The  Blessing  of  God  A  Imighty. 


their  lips  moved,  and  framed  the  fresh  souud — the 
new  name. 

God  is  one  God  indeed,  hut  within  that  holy  flame 
Three  Beings  walk  and  live ;  Three  "Who  are  Lords,  yet 
one  Lord ;  one  God,  yet  all  Three  are  God,  three 
Almighty,  yet  one  Almighty.  There  they  live,  and 
move,  and  act,  and  love.  We  know  them.  None  is 
greater  or  less  than  the  other ;  the  whole  Three  are 
co-eternal  together,  and  co-equal;  one  Person  of  the 
Father,  another  of  the  Son,  another  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 
Such  as  the  Father  is,  such  is  the  Sou,  and  such  is  the 
Holy  Ghost. 

Yes,  we  had  puzzled,  and  doubted,  and  wondered  for 
so  long  how  one  God  could  he  both  this  and  that ;  how 
one  God  could  be  both  entirely  self-contained,  self- 
contented,  yet  also  a  Creator  of  worlds,  a  Father  of  man, 
a  Friend  of  Abraham.  Now  we  know,  now  we  see ;  God 
is  One,  yet  God  is  other  than  One :  God  is  Three.  God 
is  God  alone,  yet  God  has  never  been  lonely.  God  is 
One,  yet  God  is  Love ;  He  has  never  been  unloving, 
never  without  full  exercise  of  love ;  for  there  were  Three 
eternal,  Three  uncreate,  Who  from  before  all  time  had 
the  full  intimacy  of  intercourse  one  with  another,  and 
fulfilled  in  devotion  the  one  to  the  other  the  highest 
and  holiest  necessities  of  love.  Yes  !  we  are  compelled, 
by  the  force  of  the  Christian  verity,  to  acknowledge 
every  Person  of  the  Three  by  Himself  to  be  both  God 
and  Lord  ;  and  yet  so  instant,  so  unbroken,  so  complete 
is  their  entire  unity,  that  we  cannot  divide  them 
asunder,  or  pronounce  tliem  to  be  three  Gods  or  three 
Lords.    Rather,  the  Catholic  faith  is  this,  this  is  the 


The  Blessing  of  God  A  Imighty.        2 1 5 


new  speech,  this  is  the  new  understanding:  we  worship 
one  God  in  Trinity,  and  the  Trinity  in  Unity,  neither 
confounding  the  Person,  nor  dividing  the  Substance. 
He  that  looks  for  sure  salvation  will  think  thus  of  the 
Trinity. 

So  the  Christian  body  has  pronounced,  so  we  our- 
selves repeat;  yet  with  what  unready  lips!  what 
questioning  hearts  !  How  can  we  make  it  real  ?  How 
can  we  give  it  meaning  ?  Perhaps  one  way  is,  not  to 
attempt  imagining  the  self-existence  of  the  Three  in 
One,  but  to  make  distinct  and  clear  their  separate  and 
peculiar  relation  to  ourselves,  their  separate  and  peculiar 
action  upon  our  souls.  We  know  God  by  what  He  does 
to  us ;  how  does  the  Trinity  make  clearer  the  mode  in 
which  God  applies  Himself  to  the  moulding  of  each 
separate  soul  ?   How  does  it  show  Him  to  you  and  me  ? 

Surely  we  can  distinguish  at  least  this :  God  acts  upon 
us  first  through  His  Fatherhood.  We  find  ourselves 
existing,  ringed  round  by  an  enclosing  world  of  tilings — 
trees,  sky,  rivers,  sea,  family,  home,  nature;  all  close,  com- 
pact, solid.  Yet  through  it  all  man's  spirit  runs,  sees  it 
all,  watches,  comes  to  the  end;  and  away,  far  away,  beyond 
it  all,  his  unceasing  questions  carry  him.  His  head,  his 
thought,  cannot  shut  themselves  in ;  he  knows  himself 
hid  in  a  corner.  How  ?  Whence  ?  Why  ?  Whither  ? 
Right  through  the  sky  his  thought  pierces,  seeking  a 
higher  Heaven ;  right  below  the  roots  of  the  earth  his 
reason  digs,  discovering  a  lower  depth,  a  profounder 
Hades.'  Away  from  all  that  has  been,  or  is,  or  shall  be; 
away,  back  behind  it  all,  he  strains  and  strains  his 
eyes  ;  the  "  I  am  that  I  am,"  the  One  eternal  above  all 


2 1 6        The  Blessing  of  God  Almighty. 


change,  the  One  before  all  began  to  be,  this  lie  would 
see  before  he  dies.  So  bis  thought  worked,  and  his 
heart  echoes  the  voice  of  his  reason.  It,  too,  cannot  feel 
itself  at  home  ;  it  seeks,  and  finds  not ;  it  knocks,  and 
nothing  opens ;  its  weakness,  its  dissatisfaction,  its 
hunger  and  thirst,  and,  as  sin  deepens,  its  horror  of 
misery,  its  yearning  after  purity,  all  force  it  away,  all 
drive  it  out  of  its  home  into  desert  places. 

We  long  for  the  light,  we  crave  for  food ;  we  are 
desolate,  and  know  no  peace,  and  win  no  satisfying  love  ; 
we  send  out  loud  cries  into  the  night;  the  Love,  that 
our  souls  know,  and  cannot  find ;  the  Peace,  that  our 
souls  seem  to  remember,  yet  never  to  attain;  the 
Righteousness,  that  fashioned  us,  yet  left  us  so  wicked 
and  unholy ;  where  are  they  ?  How  may  we  recover 
the  lost  joy  ?  Not  here  is  our  home ;  not  here  our  rest. 
Some  other  land  there  is,  some  other  mansion.  To  its 
dear  shores  and  forgotten  hills  we  stretch  unavailing 
hands,  and  send  out  the  wails  of  our  lament. 

So  it  is,  after  this  old  fashion,  that  our  Father  draws 
us,  that  we  are  impelled  to  discover  Him,  Who,  though 
He  draws  us  near,  yet  hides  Himself  from  us ;  though 
He  calls,  yet  remains  covered  up  in  silence;  though 
He  loves,  yet  is  sought  in  vain,  and  flies  as  we  rise  up 
to  open  the  lattice  and  look  out.  So  we  learn  the 
Fatherhood  ;  and  then  begins  the  new  Revelation. 

Not  only  did  God  once  make  us,  not  only  is  God 
to  be  found  in  that  dim  vastness  which  lies  behind 
all  our  present  days,  but  God  also  enters  into  our  life 
as  it  is  ;  He  acts  in  it,  and  through  it ;  in  Him  it  lives, 
moves,  has  its  being;  He  is  here,  here  with  us,  close 


The  Blessing  of  God  A  Imighty.        2 1  7 

by  us ;  here  in  all  we  see,  or  think,  or  feel,  or  know. 
And  this  can  be;  God  can  be  so  intimately  present 
in  a  created  world,  just  because  within  the  Godhead 
is  One  Who  is  Himself  a  result  of  the  Father's  action, 
Himself  a  Son,  and  so  is  in  full  sympathy  with  that 
yearning  of  the  Son  for  the  knowledge  and  blessing 
of  the  Father.  He  Himself  knows  that  longing  of 
dependent  love,  He  can  share  in  it  with  us,  He  can 
enter  into  fellowship  with  our  hunger  and  thirst,  He 
can  stand  by  our  side  in  our  search,  He  knows  what 
it  is  to  seek  after  a  peace  that  lies  beyond,  for  He  is 
a  Son,  yet  none  the  less  is  He  God.  God,  then,  can 
be  found,  the  voice  of  God  can  be  heard,  not  only  in 
some  far  land  to  which  we  move  but  which  we  never 
see,  but  here,  in  a  world  that  seeks  as  a  son  seeks. 
This  living,  breathing  earth  in  which  we  abide  may 
hide  the  Father,  but  it  does  not  hide,  it  reveals,  the 
Son.  His  Sonship  fills  it  from  end  to  end ;  it  is  He, 
God  Himself,  Who  speaks  to  us  from  out  of  all  its 
changing  scenes ;  His  voice,  the  voice  of  God  the  Son, 
moved  men  from  the  first,  as  it  spoke  from  out  of  all 
their  joys  and  sorrows,  spoke  in  the  fire  and  the  wind, 
and  the  earthquake,  and  in  the  still  small  voice. 

And  more  than  this ;  in  the  power  of  that  Sonship 
God  undertook  to  gather  into  Himself  all  that  now  is, 
all  that  makes  man,  all  that  stirs  in  human  souls,  all 
that  aspires,  all  that  suffers,  all  that  wastes,  all  that 
weeps,  all  that  is  forlorn  and  wanders  astray.  God  the 
Son  will  become  one  with  us  here  and  now ;  He  will 
empty  Himself  that  He  may  enter  into  our  longings, 
He  will  know  what  it  is  to  miss,  to  seek,  to  lose,  to 


2 1 8        The  Blessing  of  God  A  Imighty. 


hunger,  to  deplore ;  He  will  do  this,  yet  never  for 
one  instant  diminish  that  which  is  His  divinity,  for 
that  divinity  is  the  divinity  of  a  Son;  His  Soaship 
is  His  Godhead  ;  He  loses,  therefore,  nothing  of  His 
Godhead  in  experiencing  all  that  it  may  mean  to  be 
a  Son  of  God,  even  in  the  sense  that  we  are  sons. 

He,  the  Son  of  God,  then,  becomes  what  we  are ; 
God  is  with  us  in  our  flesh,  He'  can  bear  to  taste 
what  God  the  Father  might  never  taste ;  He  can 
become  what  the  Father,  as  Father,  is  debarred  from 
being.  He  has  that  in  His  essential  Godhead  which 
need  not  be  ashamed  to  call  us  brethren ;  as  Son  in  a 
higher  sense  than  we,  He  yet  can  embrace  within 
His  higher  Sonship  that  lower  sonship  which  is  ours. 
He  is  made  our  Brother,  our  Brother-Man.  All  that 
is  brotherly  in  nature — far  more,  all  that  is  brotherly  in 
man  ;  all  that  reaches  out  hands  to  greet  and  welcome 
us,  all  sympathy  that  grows  up,  all  encouragement 
that  flows,  all  help  that  springs  to  meet  our  need ; 
all  tenderness,  all  gentleness,  all  kindliness,  all  com- 
fort, that  soothe  our  misery;  all  pity,  all  compassion, 
all  closeness  of  heart,  all  friendship,  all  love ;  all  that 
comes  to  sweeten,  to  relieve,  to  support,  to  fortify; 
all  courage  to  share,  all  unselfishness,  all  self-sacrifice — 
all  this  large  brotherliness  of  man  to  man  is  the  work, 
the  secret  work  of  the  Son ;  all  this  is  His  prompting, 
His  ministry,  Who,  now  finally  for  our  sakes,  since 
the  children  partook  of  flesh  and  blood,  Himself 
partook  of  the  same ;  He,  the  true  Brother,  Himself,  in 
His  own  Person,  no  longer  content  with  the  feeble 
service  which  those  whom  He  inspired  attempted  to 


The  Blessing  of  God  A Imigkty.       2 1 9 


fulfil,  came  down,  and  stood  by  our  side,  and  shared 
all  our  ills,  bore  all  our  sicknesses,  was  bruised,  was 
chastised;  among  us  He  came  in  our  saddest  need, 
and  drank  of  our  bitterest  cup,  and  was  baptized  with 
our  sorest  baptism,  that  He  might  bring  nigh  to  us 
all  help,  all  comfort. 

He  came,  laying  His  hand  upon  our  head  in  sickness, 
His  fingers  upon  our  eyes,  sighing  out  His  soul  upon 
us,  breathing  His  peace  into  us,  touching,  taking  us 
by  the  hand  as  we  sink,  entering  into  our  homes, 
lifting  us  up  in  fever,  teaching,  chiding,  enfolding, 
upholding,  enlarging,  inviting,  encouraging,  drawing, 
calming,  controlling,  commanding.  He  drew  near 
•  with  His  sacred,  soothing  words,  "  Be  thou  clean  ; " 
"  Depart  from  him  ;  "  "  Son,  arise,  and  walk ; "  "  Come 
unto  Me,  I  will  give  you  rest ; "  "  Come  unto  Me, 
ye  shall  find  rest ;  "  "  Learn  of  Me  ; "  "  Take  My  yoke ; " 
carrying  us  in  His  arms,  as  little  children ;  renewing 
us  with  the  power  of  His  love ;  summoning  us  into 
His  holy  service,  "Follow  Me;"  "I  have  called  you 
friends ; "  "  My  sheep,  whom  I  know  and  love."  He 
calls  us  all  by  name. 

Yes,  there  is  nothing  He  will  not  share,  nothing  He 
will  not  comfort,  He  will  give  His  very  life  for  the  sheep ; 
He  will  die,  that  we  may  receive  of  Him  and  bring  forth 
fruit ;  He  will  divide  to  us,  by  death,  His  very  flesh  and 
blood,  that  we  may  eat,  and  not  die.  This  He  will  give 
for  the  life  of  the  world,  He,  Jesus,  our  Brother,  made 
like  unto  us  in  all  things ;  a  High  Priest,  touched  with 
the  feeling  of  our  infirmities,  in  all  points  tempted  like 
as  we  are;  a  merciful  and  faithful  High  Priest,  made 


2  20       The  Blessing  of  God  A Imighty. 


perfect  through  sufferings,  through  strong  crying  and 
tears;  Who,  in  that  He  hath  suffered  being  tempted, 
is  able  to  succour  them  that  are  tempted;  Jesus, 
the  strong  consolation  to  all  of  us  who  have  fled  for 
refuge  to  lay  hold  upon  the  hope  set  before  us ; 
Jesus,  the  Captain  of  our  salvation,  able  to  save  to 
the  uttermost  them  that  come  to  God  through  Him. 

God  draws  us  from  above,  then,  as  a  Father,  to  bless; 
God  stands  by  our  side,  as  a  Brother,  to  deliver :  but,  even 
yet,  we  fail  our  salvation,  even  yet  the  manifestation  is 
not  complete,  even  yet  our  redemption  languisheth. 

God's  countenance  looks  down,  the  Father  cometh 
forth  to  forgive ;  God,  the  Son,  takes  our  hand,  places 
Himself  by  us,  His  arm  round  us,  to  lead  us,  to 
cheer  us,  to  cover  our  shame.  Yet — who  will  not 
confess  it  ? — our  knees  tremble,  our  heart  is  sick,  our 
back  is  bowed,  we  fall  a  dead  weight  on  the  ground, 
we  cannot  move,  cannot  make  the  effort  to  rise  and 
walk ;  the  Son,  our  Brother,  pleads,  intercedes,  He 
beseeches,  invites ;  but  we  ourselves  groan  within  our- 
selves, how  can  we  dare  to  draw  near  ?  who  are  we, 
that  the  Son  should  shield  us  ?  We  remain,  utterly 
unworthy  of  all  that  has  been  done  for  us,  powerless 
to  do  our  part.  Without  is  help,  but  within  is  weak- 
ness, deplorable,  disastrous ;  within  is  the  root  of  all 
our  bitterness;  within,  in  our  secret  self,  wells  up 
the  foul  and  poisonous  water;  within,  even  yet, 
hideous  things  flap  their  wings — envy,  malice,  and  all 
uucharitableness ;  within  is  excess,  and  rioting,  and 
drunkenness;  within  is  the  tumult  of  passion,  the 
gnawing  disease  of  lust,  the  irritable  distress  of  selfish 


The  Blessing  of  God  Almighty. 


221 


pride;  within  is  no  peace,  no  sense  of  what  holiness 
means,  no  desire  to  be  like  God,  to  keep  our  spirit  and 
flesh  unsoiled,  unspotted,  to  love  blessing,  to  love  truth, 
to  hate  all  that  rnaketh  and  doeth  a  lie  ;  within,  out  of 
the  heart,  proceed,  still,  evil  thoughts,  adulteries,  forni- 
cations, murders,  theft,  covetousness,  wickedness,  deceit, 
lasciviousuess,  blasphemy,  pride,  foolishness;  all  these 
evil  things  come  from  within,  and  defde  the  man.  We 
are  defiled  with  a  horrible  defilement ;  we  are  dragged 
down  by  a  clinging  mass  of  corruption ;  and  we  are  power- 
less, impotent.  Christ,  our  dear  Brother,  may  implore 
God,  may  kneel  and  beseech,  may  die  to  redeem,  may 
offer  His  whole  soul  in  blood  to  wash  us  clean.  Still 
the  unclean  spot  remains,  still  the  impotence  condemns, 
still  concupiscence  works,  still  death  consumes;  every- 
thing that  we  do  is  soiled,  disfigured,  profane. 

And  lo  !  the  Godhead  has  still  a  disclosure  to  make, 
the  redemptive  energy  is  still  unexhausted,  it  holds  in 
itself  a  new  spring  of  life. 

The  Comforter,  the  Spirit  of  Truth,  the  Holy  Ghost, 
He  it  is  Who,  in  the  glory  of  the  Blessed  Three,  com- 
pletes the  inner  circle  of  entire  communion,  which 
binds  Father  to  Son  and  Son  to  Father ;  He  is  the 
heart  of  all  inward  union ;  He  it  is  in  the  energy  of 
Whom  the  Father  and  the  Sou  seal  their  perfect  Fellow- 
ship of  Love  ;  He  "  proceedeth  "  from  out  of  the  heart  of 
both,  moving  from  one  to  the  other,  certifying  their 
delighted  intercourse  of  free  and  unhindered  love. 

He,  then,  is  the  inward  spring  of  all  joy,  and  peace, 
and  blessing,  and  He,  therefore,  is  the  one  to  do  on 
earth  what  for  ever  and  ever  He  has  done  in  heaven ; 


222        The  Blessing  of  God  Almighty. 


He  will  work  within  us,  in  the  power  of  the  same  office 
with  which  He  works  within  the  Father  and  the  Son. 
The  Holy  Ghost  stands  not  outside,  He  enters  in,  He 
buries  Himself  in,  within  our  deepest  depths  He 
implants  Himself;  He  fashions  for  Himself  a  home,  a 
dwelling,  out  of  the  substance  of  our  souls ;  He,  the 
Dove,  the  Holy  Bird  of  God,  will  build  Himself  a  nest 
within  our  spirit-home,  out  of  the  fibres  of  our  very 
innermost  self;  He  overshadows,  He  imbreeds,  He 
inserts  a  germ  of  His  own  unswerving  holiness,  He 
makes  Himself  ours,  He  makes  us  His,  from  within  our 
soul  He  sends  up  His  cries  and  intercession  to  God ; 
He  mixes  His  voice  with  ours,  He  groans  within  our 
groans,  He  prays  within  our  prayers,  He  calls  from 
within  our  dumbness,  He  hears  from  within  our  deaf- 
ness, He  blesses  from  within  our  silence,  He  sees  from 
within  our  blindness. 

"We  are  devoured  by  weakness,  and  passion,  and  sin, 
but  deep  within  that  which  is  our  very  self  a  new 
self  is  forming,  a  new  man  is  growing,  a  new  presence 
is  conceived;  the  Spirit  has  descended  upon  us,  and 
entered  in,  and  a  holy  thing  is  born  of  Him  within  us ; 
a  new  being,  reborn,  regenerate,  with  a  new  name  that 
no  one  knows,  born  of  water  and  the  Spirit,  within  the 
husk  of  our  old  evil  self;  a  thing,  a  being,  that  God 
looks  upon,  and  calls  by  our  name,  and  treats  as  us : 
for  the  sake  of  which  new  self,  which  one  day  may 
grow  and  be  fully  born  out  of  the  womb  of  the  flesh 
into  the  light  of  life,  He  forgives  us  all  that  Ave,  in  our 
old  lustful,  passionate  self,  still  work  of  harm  and 
wickedness.    That  new  self  is  the  Spirit's  own  handi- 


The  Blessing  of  God  Almighty.  223 


work,  He  is  the  creating  energy  which  moves  once 
more  over  the  deep  waters  of  our  spiritual  chaos,  and 
remakes  a  new  world  of  grace.  God  the  Holy  Ghost 
works  from  within,  not  from  without;  not  only  the 
Father  invites  to  the  palace  and  the  feast,  not  only 
does  the  Son  secure  our  entry,  but  the  Spirit  remakes, 
reclothes,  He  makes  Himself  us.  From  within  once 
proceeded  adulteries ;  but  now,  He  that  proceedeth 
from  Father  and  Son  proceedeth,  too,  from  within  us. 
He  proceedeth  forth,  in  all  His  lovely  works  of  holy 
grace,  the  works  of  the  Spirit,  the  fruit  of  His  activity, 
in  love,  and  joy,  and  peace,  and  long-suffering,  and 
gentleness,  and  goodness,  and  faith,  and  meekness,  and 
temperance. 

So  it  is  that  the  Trinity  shows  itself  to  us.  Surely  it 
becomes  real,  this  threefold  Godhead,  when  we  can 
distinguish  so  clearly  its  threefold  action.  In  three 
separate  ways  God  shows  Himself  to  us,  three  ways 
which  we  can  recognise  distinctly  the  one  from  the 
other,  so  distinct,  so  separate,  that,  in  a  sense,  they  are 
contradictory  the  one  to  the  other.  I  mean,  each  came 
in  us  to  do  that  which  the  other,  by  its  very  nature, 
could  not  do.  The  Father  could  not  become  at  the 
same  time  a  Brother;  we  could  not  regard  the  same 
identical  Person  as  at  once  both  the  one  who  begat  us 
from  above,  and  the  one  who  shares  with  us  in  our 
nature  at  our  side.  It  was  to  be  that  which  the  Father 
could  not  be,  that  the  Son,  our  helpmate,  became  in- 
carnate of  our  flesh  and  blood.  And  our  Brother, 
again,  cannot  be  wholly  ourself.  He  is  another;  that 
is  His  very  character :  one  "Who  takes  our  place,  stands 


224 


The  Blessing  of  God  Almighty. 


for  us,  fights  for  us,  on  Whom  we  rely,  in  "Whose  life  we 
live.  But  we  have  yet  a  life  of  our  own  ;  a  life  sinful, 
corrupt,  ungainly.  We  may  fly  from  ourself  to  Him, 
but  our  self  remains,  an  unsightly  blot,  until  another  than 
He  enters  in,  and  impresses  the  seal  of  His  veiy  nature 
upon  our  nature,  and  impregnates  us  with  His  prevail- 
ing efficacy,  and  purges  out  all  corruption  by  the  fire  of 
His  inward  purification,  and  fashions  us  from  within 
entirely  anew  into  the  semblance  of  His  unspotted 
purity. 

They  are  distinct,  then ;  so  distinct  that  we  can  sever 
each  from  each,  and  feel  distinct  gratitude  to  each 
severally  as  we  recognise  their  separate  action.  Yet,  in 
all,  they  are  wholly  and  perfectly  one  God,  none  of 
them  inferior  or  less  than  another. 

Consider  this  Unity.  It  is  not  that  we  abandon  the 
attempt  to  find  the  infinite  Father,  when  we  turn  our 
eyes  upon  the  incarnate  human  Son ;  but  in  turning  to 
the  Son  we  find  the  Father.  The  way  to  know  the 
Father  is  to  know  the  Son.  "  Come  unto  Me;"  but  in 
coming  to  Him  we  arrive  at  another,  we  find  ourselves 
within  the  embrace  of  the  Father.  It  is  not  a  weakness, 
a  failure,  an  inferior  approach.  We  are  indeed  to 
believe  on  the  Son,  but  in  the  very  act  of  believing  on 
Him  we  believe  not  on  Him,  but  on  Him  that  sent 
Him,  so  entirely  and  wholly  One  are  they.  "  Have  I 
been  so  long  with  you,  and  yet  hast  thou  not  known 
Me,  Philip  ?  he  that  hath  seen  Me  hath  seen  the 
Father ; "  "I  and  the  Father  are  One." 

Nor,  again,  is  it  Christ,  our  Brother,  Whom  we  lose 
fught  or  hold  of  as  we  pass  under  the  action  of  the  Holy 


The  Blessing  of  God  Almighty. 


225 


Ghost.  No,  lie  teaches  of  Christ ;  in  His  corning  Christ 
Himself  comes ;  in  His  abiding  Christ  Himself  abides. 
Christ  Himself,  in  Him,  takes  possession;  our  very  self 
becomes  Christ's.  It  is  not  we  that  live,  but  "  Christ 
that  liveth  in  us."  We,  by  falling  under  the  activities 
of  the  Holy  Ghost,  become  members  of  Christ,  part  and 
parcel  of  His  heavenly  Body.  So  entirely  and  perfectly 
one  are  the  Son  and  the  Spirit,  that  "He,"  saith  Christ, 
"  shall  in  all  His  doing  glorify  Me ;  for  He  shall  receive 
of  Mine,  and  show  it  unto  you ;  He  shall  testify  of  Me." 

Is  this  not  wonderful  ?  Is  this  not  refreshing  ?  God's 
action  towards  us  is  so  many-sided,  yet  so  unconfused. 

Here,  for  instance,  in  this  Eucharist,  we  can  so  easily, 
and  so  helpfully  acknowledge  the  full  plenitude  of 
the  Trinity:  God  the  Father,  the  mighty  Giver;  God 
the  Son,  the  perfect  Gift;  God  the  Holy  Ghost,  the 
clean  and  pure  Eeceiver.  Each  one  His  office  ;  each  one 
His  part  and  place ;  each  one  we  bless,  and  glory,  and 
thank ;  at  no  part  do  they  fail  us,  the  whole  action  is 
complete,  on  every  side  of  us  is  support  assured.  We 
move  forward  to  His  high  altar,  surrounded,  encompassed 
on  every  side  by  the  whole  fulness  and  abundance  of 
the  Godhead.  It  is  the  Highest,  the  Holy,  the  Eternal, 
Who  spreads  His  table ;  it  is  the  blessed,  the  everlasting 
Intercessor,  Whosa  flesh  and  blood  we  eat  and  drink ; 
it  is  the  Holy  Comforter  Who  spreads  out  hands  from 
within  us,  to  receive  from  the  hands  of  the  Father  the 
Body  of  the  Son. 

And  all  Three  are  One.  That  which  is  given  is  holy 
as  God  Himself,  the  Giver ;  it  is  not  less  holy  than  He  ; 
the  Gift  is  as  utterly  and  entirely  Divine  as  the  Father 

P 


226        The  Blessing  of  God  Almighty. 

Himself  Who  gives  it;  the  Receiver  is  no  less  holy  and 
pure  than  the  Gift  or  the  Giver.  Nothing  is  lost  of  the 
preciousness  of  the  Gift,  nothing  is  spoilt  or  sullied ; 
whole  and  entire,  the  Spirit  of  God  receives  that  holy 
thing  which  the  Father  gives  and  presents. 

Yes !  the  whole  united  authority  of  the  Blessed 
Trinity  assures  and  secures  to  us  our  salvation  hy  the 
Body  and  the  Blood,  and  therefore  it  is  that,  in  spite  of 
all  our  miserable  and  hideous  defilements,  we,  even  we, 
poor,  blind,  maimed,  impotent  sinners,  can  venture 
without  fear  to  lift  up  to-day  our  thin  voices,  and,  with 
angel  and  archangel  and  all  the  company  of  heaven,  to 
laud  and  magnify  the  glorious  name,  evermore  praising 
God  and  saying,  "  Holy,  holy,  holy,  Lord  God  of  hosts, 
heaven  and  earth  are  full  of  Thy  glory.  Glory  be  to 
Thee,  0  Lord  most  High," 


SERMON  XV. 
THE  MEEKNESS  OF  GOD. 

"  GTfjc  Son  of  fflan  came  not  to  be  mintstrrro  unto,  but  to  minister, 
ant)  to  gibe  Ity's  life  a  ransom  for  mang." — St.  Matt.  xx.  28. 

Here  is  a  text  that  speaks  home,  at  once,  and  with 
ease.  It  runs  on  our  levels ;  it  speaks  in  a  language 
understood  of  all. 

Every  one  knows  the  arrogance  and  the  insolence  of 
the  kings  of  the  Gentiles,  who  exercise  lordship  over 
their  fellows.  Every  one  in  our  Lord's  day  knew  the 
pomp  and  the  pride'  of  those  provincial  governors  of 
Eome,  who  hroke  in  upon  the  rich  East  from  out  of 
the  Imperial  City,  to  despoil,  and  to  devour,  to  suck 
out  treasure,  to  recoup  ruined  fortunes  by  a  few  brief 
years  of  gainful  and  shameless  corruption,  and  then 
vanished  back  to  Rome  loaded  with  ill-gotten  wealth, 
leaving  their  place  open  to  another  spendthrift  lord,  as 
impatient  as  the  last,  to  make  full  use  of  his  splendid 
opportunity.  They  knew  well  the  selfish  greed  of 
Gentile  lordship  :  and  we,  too,  in  our  generation,  know 
too  well  the  baneful  presence  of  those  who  deem  the 
world  made  for  their  advantage  ;  who  live  to  seize  every 
occasion  of  profit ;  who  use  high  position  only  that  they 
may  discover  new  modes  of  pleasure,  new  refuges  from 
care,  new  apologies  for  idleness.   These  we  know,  kings 


228 


The  Meekness  of  God. 


of  the  earth,  exercising  selfish  lordship,  seeking  gain: 
and  those  others  we  know,  kings  of  the  intellectual 
world,  vain  and  self-seeking,  who,  in  converse  with 
their  fellows,  would  take  all,  and  give  nothing;  who 
see  in  life  nothing  but  an  opportunity  for  cleverly 
shining,  and  are  irritated  and  fretful  with  the  pettiness 
of  the  tyrant,  if  ever  they  miss  the  moments  of  display, 
or  have  no  servile  crowd  to  listen  and  applaud ;  men 
who  spend  their  days  hungering  for  new  occasions  of  self- 
gratulatory  success.  We  know  what  selfish  men  are, 
their  repellent  and  ungenial  company,  the  chill  shadow 
that  they  cast  on  all  that  is  sunny,  and  natural,  and 
warm.  Yes,  "  the  kings  of  the  earth  exercise  lordship : " 
they  have  their  own  interests  to  serve,  and  press,  and 
assert :  they  are  bent  on  aims  which  are  not  ours :  they 
pit  themselves  against  us,  they  challenge  our  right  to 
all  that  they  see  in  our  hands,  they  are  on  the  watch  to 
put  us  to  profit,  to  raise  their  black-mail,  to  weaken 
and  to  impoverish  all  whom  they  deal  with :  they  bring 
us  no  help,  they  are  felt  as  a  peril :  we  are  anxious 
while  they  pass  by :  we  breathe  more  freely  when  they 
are  gone :  such  is  the  blighting  effluence,  the  deadly 
mist,  that  hangs  about  selfishness. 

And  it  is  in  delightful  and  enticing  contrast  to  this 
that  we  turn  to  greet,  with  heart  and  soul,  the  sweet 
coming  of  Him,  the  human-hearted,  the  tender  Master 
of  all  loving-kindness,  and  all  patience,  and  all  good- 
ness, and  all  long-suffering, — the  Sen  of  Man,  Who 
enters  in  upon  our  earth  in  the  might  of  a  Lordship  all 
His  own,  the  Lordship  of  Him  Who  has  everything  to 
give,  and  gives  it  all :  Who  brings  infinite  power  of 


Tlie  Meekness  of  God. 


229 


helping,  and  sees  no  one  whom  He  will  not  help :  Who, 
having  all  things,  keeps  back  nothing  :  Who  has  nothing 
to  gain,  and  yet  risks  His  all  for  us :  Who  cannot  rest 
content,  so  long  as  He  is  not  outpouring  succour :  Who 
came  simply,  and  with  this  one  purpose,  "that  He 
might  minister : "  with  this  aim  He  started :  without 
this  aim  He  would  never  have  come.  He  brings  help, 
not  by  accident,  as  it  were,  not  incidentally,  not  with 
careless  ease,  not  of  mere  blind  good-nature,  not  in 
arbitrary  fashions,  not  by  after-thought,  not  under 
sudden  pressure,  not  by  fits  and  starts,  not  thoughtlessly, 
not  by  some  flitting  impulse  of  generosity,  not  in  casual, 
free-handed  good-humour:  nay,  He  came,  strong  with 
deliberate  intention,  the  intention  to  help.  This  motive 
alone,  this  and  no  other,  drove  Him  out  of  His  Father's 
home,  into  our  troubled  ways :  by  this  one  purpose  was 
His  soul  prompted,  and  possessed :  the  very  root  of  all 
His  desires,  the  very  ground  of  all  His  movement,  the 
very  end  of  all  His  action,  was  just  this,  that  He  might 
give.  The  Son  of  Man  came  to  minister.  He  had  seen 
an  opportunity  of  giving,  of  helping ;  and  so  He  came. 
And  of  giving  what  ? 

Of  giving  Himself!  His  service  was  to  be  utterly 
unstinted.  He  would  go  the  whole  length  with  it.  He 
saw  that  we  should  demand  from  Him  all  that  He  had  ; 
that  we  should  use  up  His  very  life ;  that  our  needs 
and  necessities  would  press  upon  Him  so  sorely,  so 
urgently,  that  He  would  spend  Himself,  and  be  spent, 
in  this  hard  service ;  that  we  should  never  let  Him 
stop,  or  stay,  or  rest,  while  we  saw  a  chance  of  draining 
His  succouring  stores.    He  foresaw  no  light  and  easy 


230  The  Meekness  of  God. 


giving,  no  grateful  and  pleasant  ministry,  but  that  it 
would  cost  Him  His  very  life.  And  yet  He  came :  even 
that  He  would  lay  down  for  our  profit :  even  that  He 
would  surrender  at  our  demands ;  and  just  because  the 
work  of  the  faithful  service  would,  indeed,  involve  this 
surrender  of  life,  which  is  the  final  and  utter  proof  of 
all  loyal  and  unselfish  devotion,  He  had  found  it  a  joy 
and  gladness  to  enter  a  world  that  would  ask  so  much 
of  Hi  in.  In  this  hope,  He  came.  "  The  Son  of  Man 
came  not  to  be  ministered  unto,  but  to  minister : "  yes, 
and  so  to  minister,  so  to  serve,  that  He  would  "  give  His 
life  a  ransom  for  many." 

He  came,  then,  as  the  good  Giver,  as  the  Shepherd 
Who  giveth  His  life  for  His  sheep. 

And  it  is  this,  His  character,  which  draws  us  under 
the  sway  of  His  gracious  Lordship.  We  cannot  resist 
the  sweet  force  of  this  irresistible  appeal,  "  Come  unto 
Me,  for  I  am  One  that  giveth  all  that  I  am  to  thee ! " 
This  is  the  allurement  of  Christ,  by  which  His  sheep 
are  drawn  after  His  feet :  how  can  they  resist  the  call 
of  One  Who  serves  them  so  loyally?  Every  sound  of 
His  voice  has  in  it  the  ring  of  that  true-hearted  devo- 
tion, which  would  lay  down  life  itself  to  save  them 
from  harm.  All  men  who  have  alive  in  their  souls  any 
touch  of  nobility,  of  tenderness,  of  humility,  understand 
the  winning  grace  of  One  Who  pleads  simply  to  be 
allowed  to  give  for  their  use  all  that  He  has,  and  all 
that  He  is.  "  I,  if  I  be  lifted  up  upon  the  Cross,  will 
draw  all  men  unto  Me  ! " 

And  yet  it  is  just  this  winning  charm  of  which  we 
miss  often  the  true  force.    For  do  we  not  associate  it 


The  Meekness  of  God. 


231 


entirely  with  what  we  call  the  humanity  of  the  Lord  ? 
It  is  the  human  Christ  Whom  we  picture  so  pleading,  so 
meek,  so  unselfish,  so  good.  It  is  the  Man  Whom  we 
think  of,  toiling  in  our  service, — the  Man  of  Sorrows 
Whom  we  remember,  with  tender,  loving  hands  that 
heal  and  help ;  with  eyes  that  flow  with  tears  of  love, 
with  a  heart  broken  by  our  mistrust,  and  a  brow 
bleeding  under  our  scorn. 

This  is  Christ,  the  Man,  to  our  minds  :  and  only  when 
wre  come  to  deeds  of  power,  only  when  He  speaks  of 
judgment  and  authority — of  His  Kingly  Throne,  of  His 
Imperial  wrath,  of  the  glory  with  the  Father  before  the 
worlds  were, — only  then  do  we  speak  of  His  Divinity. 
Our  language  seems  to  suppose,  too  often,  surely,  that 
the  Lord's  life  can  be  bisected,  and  the  acts  of  His 
humanity  be  decisively  severed  from  the  acts  of  His 
Divinity,  as  if  He  sometimes  were  wholly  man,  and,  at 
another,  set  loose  His  Divine  energy,  in  separate  and 
solitary  action. 

So  we  draw  our  narrow  and  crude  divisions :  but  this, 
of  course,  is  not  the  Catholic  creed. 

That  creed  assess  that  there  is  but  One  Person, 
Christ  Jesus,  both  God  and  Man :  One,  Who  in  all  Hi£ 
most  human  actions  is  still,  none  the  less,  the  Eternal 
Word  of  God,  Who  alone  is  the  Worker,  and  alone  the 
Speaker.  It  is  He,  the  Word,  the  Image  of  the  Father, 
Who  expresses  Himself  through  that  human  flesh ;  and 
expresses  Himself,  not  at  rare  moments  of  flashing 
glory  merely,  or  in  sudden  efforts  of  peculiar  preroga- 
tive, but  at  all  moments,  the  moments  of  weakness  as 
well  as  the  moments  of  strength;  the  moments  of 


232 


The  Meekness  of  God. 


meekness  as  well  as  the  moments  of  kingly  assertion. 
The  whole  life  of  the  fleshly  hody  is  made  His:  He 
has  poured  into  it  Himself :  He  has  made  its  features, 
and  its  limbs,  its  muscles,  and  nerves,  and  blood,  to 
become  His  garments,  His  vessels,  His  instrument,  the 
very  organ  by  which  He  acts :  He  has  taken  to  Himself 
its  very  nature  and  substance,  which  He  indwells,  and 
possesses,  and  animates,  and  fills. 

And,  if  so,  then  it  is  in  the  action,  and  character,  and 
movement  of  His  Humanity,  that  we  are  to  recognise, 
and  interpret,  and  understand  His  Divine  Person. 
Powers,  and  energies,  and  motions  of  the  Divinity, 
indeed,  there  are,  which  cannot  limit  themselves  by 
fleshly  barriers,  and  hold  themselves  distinct  from 
bodily  circumscription.  We  are  not  confounding  that 
which  is '  divided :  His  Divine  nature  remains  whole, 
and  undiminished,  and  distinct ;  but  there  is  no  division 
of  Person.  That  which  acts  in  and  through  the  flesh 
is  the  One  Person,  Jesus  Christ,  the  Word,  Who  is  ever 
with  God,  and  Who  is  God ;  and  all  the  motions  in  the 
flesh  are,  therefore,  the  motions  of  a  God :  His  hands, 
His  feet,  His  face  are  all  the  expression  of  an  eternal 
Personality :  that  which  we  behold  in  the  countenance 
of  the  Man  Jesus,  is  the  face  of  the  Word,  Who  is  in 
the  bosom  of  the  Father. 

Is  this  unreal  theology  ?  Is  this  the  useless  abstrac- 
tion of  fanciful,  Athanasian  dogmatic? 

Nay,  surely !  it  is  the  very  life  and  soul  of  the 
Christian  faith.  For,  if  it  be  true,  then  that  charm 
which  allures  us  to  the  gracious  and  tender-hearted 
Healer  of  sickness,  is  no  temporary  character  assumed 


The  Meekness  of  God. 


'33 


at  the  birth,  no  mere  incident  of  the  sojourn  in  the 
Virgin's  womb ;  no  lower  and  subordinate  element  in 
our  conception  of  the  Lord,  no  partial  condescension  to 
the  weakness  of  our  faith.  That  winning  grace  has  in  it 
the  potency  of  God  Himself.  It  is  the  manifestation  of 
the  Word,  the  revelation  of  what  God  is  in  Himself. 
The  body,  the  flesh, — these  make  plain  and  clear  what 
has  been  from  of  old,  from  eternity.  They  make  effectual 
to  us,  attractive  to  us,  apprehensible  by  us,  the  ancient 
and  everlasting  God.  If  Jesus,  the  Man,  is  tender  and 
meek,  then  God,  the  Word,  is  meek  and  tender:  God, 
the  Word,  is  sympathetic,  and  gentle,  and  humble,  and 
forgiving,  and  loyal,  and  loving,  and  true.  It  is  God, 
the  Word,  Who  cannot  restrain  Himself,  for  love  of  us ; 
and  comes,  with  overwhelming  compassion,  to  seek  and 
save  the  lost :  God,  the  eternal  Word,  Who  longs  to  win 
the  heart  of  publican  and  sinner.  He  has  not  now 
begun  to  be  all  this :  such  as  this  He  has  been  from  all 
eternity ;  such  as  this  He  cannot  but  be.  He  shows 
us,  not  another,  but  Himself, — God  Himself,  Who  loves, 
and  weeps  for  Lazarus;  Who  looks  upon  the  rich  young 
man,  and  loves  him ;  Who  has  pity  for  the  forlorn  and 
childless  widow ;  Who  takes  up  children  in  His  arms, 
and  blesses  them ;  Who  prays  for  His  murderers,  and 
tender!}'  remembers  His  mother,  and  forgives  the  dying 
thief :  God,  the  Word,  Whose  Soul  is  exceeding  sorrow- 
ful, even  unto  death  ;  Who  took  bread,  and  blessed,  and 
gave  thanks,  and  so  loved  His  own  to  the  uttermost. 
It  is,  verily,  no  accident  of  His  bodily  life,  all  this ! 
No  character  adopted,  to  be  put  on  and  put  off;  no 
mere  growth  of  thirty  narrow  years !    It  is  God  Him- 


234 


The  Meekness  of  God. 


self  Who  is  incarnate,  God  Himself,  the  Son,  Whom  St. 
John  touched,  and  tasted,  and  handled  :  it  is  He,  in  His 
everlasting  characteristics,  Who  is  made  manifest  in  the 
flesh.  The  Son  of  Man  is  the  Son  of  God ;  and,  there- 
fore, we  know  and  thank  God  for  it,  that  it  is  the 
blessed  nature  of  the  Son  Himself,  in  His  eternal  sub- 
stance, which  found  its  true  and  congenial  delight  in 
coming,  not  to  be  served,  but  to  serve,  and  "  to  give  His 
life  a  ransom  for  many." 
Nor  is  this  all. 

For  he  who  hath  seen  Christ,  hath  seen  the  Father, — 
the  Father,  in  Whose  Name  He  worked,  Whose  word 
He  spake.     That  last  and  uttermost  pledge  of  un- 
faltering love,  the  death  on  the  Cross,  was  no  plan,  no 
thought  of  His  own.    It  was  the  Father  that  prompted 
it,  the  Father,  without  Whom  He  could  do  nothing :  it 
was  the  Father  Who  moved  Him  to  the  task  :  this  com- 
mandment He  had  received  of  the  Father,  to  lay  down 
His  life  for  the  sheep.    That  tender,  gracious,  devoted, 
patient,  forgiving  gentleness,  that  warm,  overflowing 
sympathy,  that  invincible  passion  of  sacrificial  love, 
that  sweet  human-hearted  compassion,  that  lovely  per- 
suasiveness, which  flows  down  to  us  from  the  Cross  of 
Jesus, — all  this,  then,  is  not  only  a  revelation  of  the 
motives,  and  spirit,  and  affection  of  God  the  Son,  but 
more  than  this,  all  of  it  is  an  outcome,  an  expression, 
of  the  character  (if  we  may  be  allowed  the  word)  of 
God  the  Father.    His  heart  it  is  which  the  Passion 
of  Christ  makes  manifest,  His  heart  which  it  is  given  us 
to  understand  in  the  infinite  piety,  and  beauty,  and  grace, 
aud  comfort,  and  goodness,  and  meekness  of  Jesus, 


The  Meekness  of  God. 


235 


These  are  all  the  signs,  the  sacraments,  the  interpre- 
tation, the  outflow,  of  His  Father's  presence;  for  lie 
and  the  Father  are  one.  The  winning  tenderness,  the 
wonderful  humility,  which  look  at  us  out  of  the  eyes  of 
the  dear  Lord,  are  the  clearest  and  closest  knowledge 
we  ever  here  shall  attain  of  what  we  mean  when  we 
name  the  Father,  of  what  we  shall  behold  when  we 
see  God. 

Do  we  remember  sufficiently  that  it  is  the  Father 
Whom  the  Gospel  story  makes  near,  makes  visible  ? 
that,  in  drawing  near  to  Christ,  under  the  strong 
pressure  of  the  unstinting  love,  we  are  being  drawn 
near  to  God,  the  Everlasting  Father,  made  present  and 
intelligible  in  His  Son  ? 

God  the  Father  offers  us  a  picture  of  that,  His  eternal 
substance,  hid  in  excess  of  omnipotent  light :  and  we 
press  forward  to  look :  and  lo  !  we  behold  One  Who  is 
meek,  and  lowly,  and  gentle,  riding  upon  an  ass,  wash- 
ing the  feet  of  His  friends,  serving,  and  not  served, 
loving  Mary,  and  Martha,  and  Lazarus,  the  Friend  of 
publicans  and  sinners.  That  is  the  image  of  God  the 
Father,  the  express  character  of  His  Almighty  Person. 

Are  we  startled  ?  Startled  to  think  thus  of  the  God 
of  the  Jews,  of  Sinai,  of  Sabaoth  ? 

Yet  why  should  we  be  surprised  ? 

What  was  it  that  the  old  covenant  told  of  God  but 
this,  that  He  was  one  "  Who  led  His  people  like  sheep, — 
that  He  carried  them  as  the  eagle  its  young — yea,  as  an 
eagle  stirreth  upon  her  nest,  fluttereth  over  her  young, 
spreadeth  abroad  her  wings,  taketh  them,  beareth  them 
upon  her  wings,  so  the  Lord  did  lead  them  "  ?  What 


236 


The  Meekness  of  God. 


can  be  more  tender,  what  more  pitiful  ?  What  otlieT 
was  the  name  by  which  Moses  knew  Him,  Moses 
hidden  in  the  cleft  of  the  high  and  lonely  rock,  covered 
by  the  hollow  of  God's  hand,  as  the  Lord  descended  in 
a  cloud,  and  stood  with  him.  and  proclaimed  the  name 
of  the  Lord,  when  the  Lord  passed  by  before  him,  and 
proclaimed,  "  The  Lord,  the  Lord  God,  merciful  and 
gracious,  long-suffering  in  goodness  and  truth,  keeping 
mercy  for  thousands,  forgiving  iniquity,  and  trans- 
gression, and  sin  ?  "  So  Moses  knew  Him  :  and  by  what 
other  name  did  Isaiah  know  Him, — Isaiah,  who  knew 
Him  by  all  manner  of  tender  and  gracious  names — the 
Vinedresser,  the  Husbandman,  the  Shepherd,  the  Bride- 
groom, the  Husband, — the  God  of  pleading  compassion, 
more  faithful,  more  forgiving  than  a  mother :  "  Yea, 
she  may  forget  her  sucking  ahild,  yet  will  I  not  forget 
thee!" 

And  the  Psalmist, — did  he  know  of  any  other  God 
than  the  God  Who  is  made  manifest  in  Christ,  when  he 
sang  of  the  Lord  his  God,  "Who  helpeth  them  to  right 
that  suffer  wrong,  Who  feedeth  the  hungry ;  the  Lord 
Who  looseth  men  out  of  prison,  the  Lord  Who  giveth 
sight  to  the  blind,  the  Lord  Who  careth  for  the 
righteous,  Who  careth  for  the  stranger,  and  defendeth 
the  cause  of  the  fatherless  and  the  widow,  the  Lord 
Who  healeth  those  that  are  broken  in  heart,  and  giveth 
medicine  to  heal  their  sickness  ? " 

True,  there  is  thunder  round  Sinai ;  wrath,  and  terror, 
and  judgment  upon  the  lips  of  Prophet  and  Psalmist. 
But  is  there  no  dread  anger,  no  terrible  lightning,  in 
Him  Who,  meek  and  gentle  and  lowly  as  He  was,  yet 


The  Meekness  of  God. 


237 


had  words  like  leaping  flames,  of  awful  condemnation: 
"  Woe  unto  hypocrites,  generation  of  vipers;"  in  Him 
Who,  against  the  faithless  and  wicked  servant,  will 
give  scathing  judgment :  "  Cut  him  asunder ;  cast  him 
into  outer  darkness ;  there  where  the  worm  dieth  not, 
and  the  fire  is  not  quenched." 

The  holiness  of  the  meekest  of  men  has  its  searching 
fire :  for  God  would  not  be  all-holy  if  He  were  not 
terrible  in  His  devouring  fury  against  sin  ;  and  in  being 
holy,  He  is,  of  necessity,  meek,  and  long-suffering,  and 
merciful.  God  the  Father,  then,  for  all  His  terror,  is 
gracious  and  pitiful :  He,  the  God  of  Sinai,  is  indeed 
the  very  God  Who  is  made  manifest  in  Him,  Whom 
He  sent  and  anointed  to  heal  the  broken-hearted,  to 
preach  deliverance  to  the  captives,  to  refresh  the  weary 
and  heavy-laden,  to  feed  all  hungry  souls. 

Are  we  still  surprised  ?  Do  we  yet  find  it  difficult 
to  associate  so  closely  the  picture  of  Christ,  the  lowly 
and  the  meek,  with  our  conception  of  God,  the  Eternal 
Father  ? 

What,  then,  is  it  that  we  primarily  believe  of  God 
the  Father  which  is  inconsistent  with  the  appearance  in 
the  flesh  of  God  the  Son,  Who  is  in  the  form  of  God  ? 

Surely  His  Name  is,  first,  "  the  Father : "  He,  Who 
gives  life,  gives  out  of  Himself  His  own  Life :  He, 
Whose  actual  Godhead  lies  in  His  free  spontaneity  of 
giving,  in  His  gift  of  Himself  to  the  Son :  for  His 
Fatherhood  is  His  Godhead :  His  Divinity  is  not  shut 
up  to  itself :  it  exhibits  itself  in  the  very  act,  wherewith 
it  gives  life :  His  very  substance  consists  in  the  desire, 
the  eternal  readiness,  to  surrender  His  entire  Being  to 


The  Meekness  of  God. 


another.  From  everlasting  to  everlasting,  He  is  the 
Father  Whose  whole  joy  is  to  glorify  the  Son. 

The  Father,  and  also  the  Creator,  One,  Who,  without 
any  self-interest,  without  any  personal  need,  without  any 
external  motive,  without  inducement,  without  necessity : 
solely  out  of  the  abundant  largess  of  His  own  exceeding 
love  :  solely  that  He  might  see  others  live  in  His  Life, 
and  in  His  Light  see  light :  solely  out  of  the  un- 
bounded munificence  of  His  everlasting  compassion, 
set  Himself  to  the  six  da}-s'  labour,  poured  out  life  upon 
life,  power  upon  power,  grace  upon  grace  ;  each  new 
work  richer  and  fairer  than  the  old :  and  all  for  this 
one  end, — that  those  thousand  times  ten  thousand  worlds 
hung  in  the  vast  spaces  of  heaven,  might  bum,  and 
quiver,  and  roll  in  the  gladness  of  the  outgiven  life, 
as  thronging  and  multitudinous  insects  rise,  and  circle, 
and  dance,  with  murmuring  joy,  in  the  splendour 
of  summer  suns. 

God  the  Father,  God  the  Creator,  and  God  the 
Redeemer :  the  Eedeemer,  Who,  after  all  the  abundance 
of  His  first  gift  of  creation,  had  still  new  gifts  in  store 
for  those  who  failed,  and  fell.  They  fell ;  but,  still,  He 
works  on,  with  the  Son,  outpouring  fresh  springs  of  heal- 
ing. Still,  on  prophet  and  people,  He  spends  the  treasures 
of  the  Spirit;  witli  all  its  manifold  gifts :  still,  as  sins 
increase,  increases  the  abundance  of  the  good  giving, 
until,  at  last,  pressed  and  driven  by  our  insults,  by  our 
scorn,  by  our  ingratitude,  He  gave  Flis  all ;  gave,  like  the 
poor  widow,  even  all  that  He  had  :  gave  us  that  which 
is  Himself,  One  with  Him,  of  His  substance,  of  His 
nature,  laid  eternally  at  His  heart,  in  undivided  union 


The  Meekness  of  God. 


with  Himself.  Yea,  "  God  so  loved  the  world,  that  He 
pave  His  only-begotten  Son:"  gave  Him,  His  supreme 
and  uttermost  gift,  Life  of  His  Life,  Light  of  His  Light : 
Him  He  gave  when  He  had  no  more  to  give ;  gave  Him 
when  we  had  despised  and  outraged  all  other  gifts,  and 
would  disgrace,  and  defame,  and  spurn,  and  spit  upon 
this  His  holiest  and  dearest  Gift  also.  Him,  neverthe- 
less, His  only  Son,  His  Beloved,  Heart  of  His  Heart, 
Spirit  of  His  Spirit,  Son  of  His  Love :  Him,  still,  at  all 
risk,  at  any  cost,  He  gave  !  So  mightily,  so  unflinch- 
ingly, has  God,  the  good  Giver,  loved  this  naughty 
world  !  Surely  here  is  meekness,  meekness  even  in  the 
Most  High  !  Surely  here  is  humility,  and  loving- 
kindness,  and  pity,  and  long-suffering,  and  tenderness, 
and  gentleness,  and  sympathy,  and  goodness,  and 
mercy,  and  love,  and  inexhaustible  compassion.  Surely 
here  is  One  Whose  delight  is  not  to  be  ministered  unto, 
but  to  minister:  here,  in  God  the  Father,  Who  gave 
His  Son  for  us,  we  recognise  all  that  melts  us  to  tears  of 
thankfulness  in  the  sweet  and  pleading  graciousness  of 
Jesus, — Jesus,  the  human-hearted,  the  Man  of  Sorrows, 
Who  gave  His  Life  a  ransom  for  many  ! 


SERMON  XVI. 


THE  POWERS  THAT  BE. 

"  Cfjett  is  no  pofoer  but  of  ffiofi:  tijc  powers  tljat  be  nre  ortaincU 
of  (Si  on." — Rom.  xiii.  i. 

The  historic  life  of  man  moves  under  the  impulse  and 
control  of  God.  So  the  first  Church  believed,  as  it  read 
in  its  familiar  Scripture  how  the  long  order  of  the 
Jewish  revelation  had  interwoven  itself  into  the  actual 
history  and  process  by  which  the  race  of  Israel  had 
moved  forward,  through  its  political  changes,  from  the 
free  domination  of  the  Lawgiver,  through  the  loose  and 
sudden  chieftaincies  of  the  judges,  to  the  full  sove- 
reignty of  the  kings. 

Each  movement  in  social  organization  was  a  move- 
ment in  spiritual  apprehension:  it  was  God  that  showed 
Himself  in  each  political  expedient:  it  was  the  law  of 
His  manifestation,  that  it  should  shape  and  mould 
itself  by  the  needs,  and  forms,  and  varieties  of  Jewish 
society.  His  revelations  moved  in  intimate  sympathy 
with  the  shift  and  change  of  history. 

And  this  intimacy  was  not  narrowed,  so  the  Jew3 
had  learned,  to  the  mere  limits  of  the  privileged  people. 
As  the  shock  of  disaster  shattered  their  homes,  and 
scattered  their  sad  exiles  into  all  far  lands,  the  eyes  of 
their  1;  ^e-hearted  seers  were  opened  to  the  wider 


The  Powers  that  be. 


241 


ranges,  to  the  vaster  horizons.  As  they  stood  under 
the  solemn  shadows  of  the  immense  Babylonian  palaces, 
and  gazed  from  out  of  their  lonely  sorrows  upon  those 
silent  masses  of  Assyrian  statuary,  big  inspirations 
stirred  in  them  of  far-reaching  hopes,  and  grander 
destinies.  Not  that  the  holy  nation  was  lost  or  for- 
gotten :  it  still  centred  upon  itself  the  eye  and  heart  of 
the  Most  High;  but  round  it  and  about  it  these 
enormous  nations  moved  and  shifted  under  the  breath 
of  that  same  God.  At  His  Will  they  gathered ;  under 
His  wrath  they  sundered  and  passed  :  it  was  He  Who, 
by  His  mighty  arm,  uplifted  them  into  supremacy:  it 
was  He  Who  drew  them  by  strong  pressure  from  the 
east  and  from  the  south :  it  was  He  Who  drove  them 
out  of  the  hills  of  the  north :  it  was  He  Who  poured 
them  out  of  the  river-watered  plains. 

For  each  He  had  an  office  ;  for  each  He  had  appointed 
a  beginning  and  an  end.  One  by  one  they  rose  in 
orderly  succession,  those  stupendous  kingdoms  of  the 
East.  Babylonian  and  Persian,  Egyptian  and  Greek,  God 
had  required  their  armies  :  He  had  lain  His  hand  upon 
their  captains:  Assyria  was  His  hammer,  Cyrus  was  His 
shepherd,  Egypt  was  His  garden,  Tyre  was  His  jewel : 
everywhere  He  was  felt :  everywhere  the  Divine  destiny 
directed  and  controlled :  and  far  from  the  especial 
revelation  of  Himself,  which  he  concentrated  upon  the 
Jews,  being  severed  sharply  and  decisively  from  these 
large  social  growths,  it  interlaced  itself  -most  closely 
and  intricately  with  their  motions :  it  mixed  its  story 
with  theirs:  it  is  round  it  they  turn.  The  shuttle  of 
God  passes  in  and  out,  weaving  into  its  web  a  thousand 

Q 


242 


The  Poivers  ihat  be. 


threads  of  natural  human  life.  All  history  is  put  to  the 
uses  of  God's  holier  manifestation:  He  works  under  the 
pressure  laid  upon  Him  by  the  wants  and  necessities  of 
social  and  political  progress. 

Nor  was  this  association  of  the  spiritual  and  natural 
confined  to  the  Jews.  The  faith  of  the  Incarnation 
enlarged  and  crowned  this  anticipation  of  the  prophets. 
Christ,  indeed,  came  down  from  heaven:  He  was  not  of 
the  world ;  He  came  from  above,  not  from  beneath  :  but 
He  came  to  find  what  the  Father  had  already  given, 
what  the  Father  had  already  drawn  to  Him.  Nothing 
could  come  near  to  Him  but  that  which  had  already 
in  it  the  force  and  impulsion  of  God.  The  revelation, 
then,  of  Christ  entered  a  world  already  informed  by  a 
premonitory  impulse,  already  responsive  to  the  touch  of 
Divinity.  The  sheep  were  His,  and  He  entered  only  to 
find  and  gather  them  :  His  voice  would  be  to  them  no 
strange,  unfamiliar  thing,  but  the  sound  of  a  friend, 
known,  beloved,  expected,  sympathetic :  the  world  to 
which  He  came  was  a  world  already  His,  already  made 
by  Him :  it  was  true  of  the  whole  as  it  was  true  of  the 
part,  that  He  came  unto  His  own  ;  and,  if  so,  His  entire 
manifestation  would  proceed  in  intimate  union  with  the 
process  and  movements  of  the  natural  order  of  life ;  it 
would  answer  to  them  ;  it  would  be  congenial  to  them  ; 
it  would  meet  them ;  it  would  find  them  to  its 
hand;  it  would  mimle  itself  with  their  aspirations 
and  welcome  their  aims.  Everywhere  that  Spirit  of 
lievelation  would  recognise  itself :  it  would  greet  its  own 
handiwork ;  it  would  encounter  its  own  countenance  ;  it 
would  come  unto  its  own ;  it  would  raise  this  faint  and 


The  Powers  that  be. 


243 


stifled  humanity  to  life,  as  Elisha  raised  the  dead  boy 
at  Sarepta,  by  laying  face  to  face,  and  hand  on  hand, 
and  feet  to  feet,  by  close  and  binding  correspondence. 

And  it  was  so.  We  have  been  hearing  lately  in 
London,1  from  lips  that  speak  our  accents  without  our 
inspiration,  how  largely  Christ  admitted,  within  the 
shaping  of  its  Divine  system,  the  influence  of  that 
imperial  dominion  which  had  laid  its  vast  arms  about 
the  world  from  the  Thames  to  the  Euphrates.  We, 
indeed,  may  insist,  with  unshaken  force,  that  the  power 
so  to  put  Home  to  use  could  hardly  proceed  from  Rome 
herself,  as  our  puzzled  critic  is  inclined  to  suggest; 
while,  yet,  we  admit  with  ready  glee  that  the  Church 
found  in  Roman  organization,  in  Roman  skill,  in  Roman 
order,  in  Roman  obedience,  that  which  had  for  her  an 
overflowing  suggestiveness,  and  won  from  her  a  free 
and  delighted  adaptation. 

"  The  powers  that  be  are  ordained  of  God."  So 
cries  St.  Paul :  this  great  empire  is  His  voice,  His  call 
to  us,  His  symbol :  in  it  He  invites  us,  He  welcomes 
us,  He  holds  out  hands  of  greeting.  It  is  the  response 
from  without  to  our  mission  from  above;  the  mercy 
and  peace  that  look  down  from  heaven  encounter  a 
righteousness  that  spriugeth  up  from  earth  :  they  meet 
together  and  embrace.  So  it  was,  as  we  know  well,  that 
the  vision  of  the  vast  Christian  kingdom,  whose  citizens 
should  break  down  all  partitions  between  Greek  or 
barbarian,  bond  or  free,  male  or  female,  draws  its 
imagery  and  wins  its  intelligibility  from  that  wide 
fabric  of  Roman  law  which   spread   its  marvellous 

1  M.  Reiian's  Ilibbert  Lectures. 


244  The  Powers  tJmt  be. 


dominion  from  the  prison-house  of  Paul  on  the  Palatine, 
over  the  wide  forests  of  Germany  and  Gaul,  over  the 
shores  of  the  Mediterranean  twinkling  with  towns,  over 
the  sweeps  of  African  land,  and  the  wealth  and  wonder 
of  Syria.  The  Church  never  ceased  to  praise  and 
admire,  even  where  it  slew  her,  the  imperial  justice  of 
Pome :  her  apologists,  even  when  pleading  before  it  for 
their  lives,  turn  to  it  as  to  a  friend:  they  appeal  to  it 
from  the  blind  fury  of  the  mob,  with  the  proud  assurance 
that  it  cannot,  if  it  be  true  to  itself,  be  against  them. 
They  are  as  convinced  as  St.  Paul  himself  that  the  law 
was  bound  only  to  be  a  terror  to  evildoers,  and  a  praise 
to  them  that  do  well :  they  recognise,  with  all  their 
•  hearts,  the  nobility  of  the  Poman  ideal  of  a  law  that 
stood  over  all  personal  distinction,  all  local  enmities : 
and  when  it  fell  to  the  Church  to  organize  her  own 
dominion  and  ministrations,  she  used,  wherever  she 
could,  the  model  of  that  civil  order  which  Pome  had 
perfected,  and  followed  Pome's  lines  for  her  diocesan 
divisions,  for  her  parishes  and  her  provinces,  for  the 
summoning  of  her  assemblies,  and  the  fashion  of  her 
appeals.  Pome  was  to  her  a  perpetual  suggestion  of 
the  form  and  direction  which  her  Divine  work  should 
assume ;  and  the  Church  of  Pevelation  was  in  no  sense 
afraid  to  use  and  follow  the  fashions  of  human  civilization. 

"  The  powers  that  be  are  ordained  of  God."  Pound 
aud  about  us  those  same  powers  are  moving ;  they  are 
breaking  up,  and  reshaping  the  old  world  order  to  new 
issues:  and  if  we  were  asked  what  was  most  peculiar 
and  predominant  in  their  working  at  this  hour,  we 
should  answer,  I  think,  the  tendency  to  fashion  vast 


The  Powers  that  be. 


245 


cities.  The  powers  that  belong  to  immense  masses, 
the  powers  that  lie  in  concentrated  efforts,  the  powers 
that  create  and  move  into  being  these  huge  combina- 
tions of  human  skill  and  human  interest,  with  all  their 
infinite  multiplicity,  their  intricate  variety,  their  un- 
to! 1  complexity,  their  splendid  range  of  massive 
achievements,  their  silent  transformations,  their  noisy 
turmoil  of  business,  their  struggle,  and  pressure,  and 
competition,  their  rises  and  falls,  so  swift,  and  yet  so 
slow,  so  sure,  yet  so  unforeseen,  so  regular,  yet  so 
arbitrary,  so  steady,  yet  so  blind  ;  their  push,  and  press, 
and  insistent  strife,  their  endless  steps,  and  degrees, 
and  grades,  circle  within  circle,  their  changes  and 
chances,  their  wealth  and  poverty,  their  shocks  and 
convulsions,  their  ebbs  and  flows,  their  heavings 
and  subsidences,  their  network  of  influences,  their 
growth  of  involved  habits,  their  intricate  co-operations, — 
yes,  and  their  restless  anxieties,  their  constant  strain, 
their  quickened  brains,  their  unknown  agonies,  tb6ir 
unlooked-for  cruelties,  their  enormous  disasters,  their 
boundless  pains :  these,  these  are  the  powers  that  are 
shaping  human  history  under  our  eyes ;  these  are  the 
powers  that  hold  the  future  in  their  grasp  ;  these  are 
the  powers  that  govern  our  immediate  destiny;  these 
are  the  powers  put  into  action  by  that  Divine  im- 
pulsion which  underlies  all  social  movements ;  these 
are  "  the  powers  that  be." 

And  these,  therefore,  I  would  beseech  you  to  believe, 
are  "  the  powers  ordained  of  God."  Here,  in  London,  we 
stand  at  the  very  centre  of  this  new  working,  at  the 
very  point  where  the  pressure  of  the  incoming  energies  is 


246 


The  Powers  that  be. 


most  strongly  felt.  Never  before  has  society  attempted 
so  complete  or  so  gigantic  a  combination  ;  never  before 
have  men  succeeded  in  so  extending  their  efforts ;  and 
all  the  ingenuity  of  human  invention  is  spent  in 
rendering  this  union  of  manifold  interests  more  inti- 
mate  and  more  intense.  Here,  then,  in  London,  more 
than  anywhere,  do  we  see  the  suggestions  of  God : 
here,  more  than  anywhere,  we  understand  the  task  that 
is  before  us.  Christianity  may  not  pick  and  choose  its 
own  field  of  work,  nor  dream  of  some  favourite  and 
congenial  society,  where  its  creed  would  find  itself 
more  easily  at  home.  It  is  bound  to  undertake  the 
task  God  sets  before  it ;  it  is  bound  to  follow  His 
invitation,  to  encounter  His  challenge.  God  in  each 
successive  fashion  of  civilization  challenges  His  Church : 
He  challenges  it  to  measure  its  strength  with  His,  to 
wrestle  with  Him  as  Jacob  wrestled,  until  the  dawn 
broke  over  the  hills  of  Mahanaim. 

#Come  !  He  cries,  here  is  My  new  offer ;  here  is  the  new 
stuff  from  out  of  which  you  must  shape  for  Me  garments 
of  beauty ;  here  are  the  new  stones  out  of  which  you 
must  build  My  Holy  Temple ;  here  is  the  new  food 
which  you  must  gather  in  to  be  transformed  into  the 
Body  of  My  clear  Son. 

The  Church  fails  herself,  if  she  fails  to  be  adequate  to 
the  needs  of  this  invitation  :  she  is  faithless  to  her  hope, 
if  she  falls  below  the  standard  of  mankind's  historic 
progress,  if  she  has  no  answer  to  his  problems,  no 
interpretation  to  give  to  his  movements.  These  great 
cities  into  which  the  life  of  humanity  is  throwing  all  its 
endeavours,  and  which  have  in  them  the  seed  of  the 


The  Powers  that  be. 


247 


days  to  come,  must  be  as  welcome  to  the  Church  as  was 
ever  that  ancient  Roman  empire:  she  has  to  learn  to 
apply  herself  to  them,  as  she  applied  herself  of  old  to 
Home:  she  has  to  see  in  them  the  finger  of  God  pre- 
paring her  the  way:  she  has  to  listen  for  their  tones 
and  assimilate  their  experiences.  The  Church  of  the 
Fathers  would  have  been  doomed,  if  she  had  fallen  short 
of  the  largeness,  the  width,  the  dignity,  the  universality 
of  Roman  imperialism :  if  the  citizenship  she  offered 
had  been  a  narrower  and  pettier  thing  than  that  lordly 
freedom  to  which  St.  Paul  was  proud  to  lay  claim,  even 
under  the  shadows  of  the  Temple.  She  triumphed 
because  she  was  brave  and  strong  enough  to  give  a  yet 
nobler  response  to  those  wide  and  splendid  cravings 
alter  equal  justice  and  a  common-hearted  brotherhood, 
which  Rome  set  moving,  but  failed  to  content.  And 
we  have,  then,  a  like  task,  which  we  shall  fail  at  our 
peril!  It  is  our  task  to  be  equal  to  those  thousand 
influences  that  vast  cities  foster  and  increase:  it  is  our 
task-  to  prove  that  the  Church  has  it  in  her  to  deal  with 
these  new  powers,  to  measure  herself  with  their  aspira- 
tions, to  be  large  and  full,  and  strong,  and  masterful, 
and  immense  as  they.  If  they  exhibit  the  enormous 
scale  which  combination  makes  possible,  she,  too,  will 
show  that  she  knows  how  to  combine;  she,  too,  will 
prove  her  power  of  concentrating  efforts,  of  doing  things 
in  the  mass:  it  will  never  do  for  her  to  be  puny  and 
small  in  the  face  of  a  vastness  like  that  of  London  :  it 
will  not  do  to  be  content  with  securing  the  safety  of  our 
own  little  corner  of  the  world,  in  the  face  of  an  immense 
system  of  co-operation. 


24S 


The  Powers  that  be. 


How,  then,  is  such  vastness  attainable  ?  How  is 
London  possible  ?  London  is  possible,  because  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  men  and  women  work  that  others 
may  reap  the  fruit,  work  for  results  which  they  them- 
selves never  see.  London  is  possible,  because  men 
trust  one  another,  because  men  rely  on  those  they  never 
see  or  hear  of,  or  overlook :  it  is  possible,  because,  for 
instance,  every  man  can  work  all  day  in  confident 
security  that  the  huge  machinery  which  provides  him 
with  his  food  will  most  certainly  accomplish  its  daily 
necessary  task,  even  though  he  know  nothing  of  the 
laborious  process.  And  the  evangelization  of  London 
will  be  possible  when  Christians  exhibit  an  equal 
largeness  of  confidence  in  one  another,  and  enter  into 
co-operation  with  something  of  this  width  of  view, 
this  un«rud<2ing  freedom.  A^ain,  London  is  what  it  is, 
because  no  man  lives  for  himself,  because  no  district  in 
it  narrows  its  interest  down  to  its  own  limits.  London 
lives  as  a  whole :  it  is  no  mere  conglomeration  of 
parishes :  it  is  powerful  just  because  its  influences,  its 
organization,  work  in  the  mass,  work  in  the  spirit,  and 
on  the  scale,  of  an  immense  community,  with  a  common 
interest,  and  a  common  welfare :  and  by  the  side  of  this 
great  life  our  Christianity  is  only  too  apt  to  look  such 
a  poor,  and  mean,  and  small  thing,  with  its  local  and 
partial  efforts,  its  isolated  endeavours,  its  lonely  and 
disunited  struggles,  its  selfish  and  timid  narrowness, 
its  feeble  and  intermittent  exertions. 

This  is  our  shame  !  and  what  you  are  asked  to  do 
to-day  1  is  to  overstep  the  boundaries  which  too  often 

1  Preached  on  behalf  of  the  Bishop  of  London's  Fund. 


The  Powers  that  be. 


249 


confine  our  charities  and  our  care :  you  are  asked  to 
attempt  the  larger  task,  the  worthier  endeavour:  you 
are  asked  to  recognise  the  scope  and  range  which  is 
demanded  of  our  Christianity,  if  it  is  to  be  adequate 
%  to  the  work  it  has  proposed  to  undertake:  you  are 
asked  to  deal  with  London,  not  in  scraps  and  fragments, 
but  as  a  whole,  as  a  living  thing,  as  a  single,  vast,  and 
inspiring  fact,  in  the  welfare  of  which  you  are  pro- 
foundly concerned,  and  for  the  good  and  evil  of  which 
every  one  of  you  is  in  a  measure  responsible.  You 
know  its  enormous  outgrowth :  you  know  its  un- 
ceasing increase.  Not  only  have  we  been  insufficient 
in  the  past,  but  the  present  is  daily  enlarging  the 
difficulties  already  so  gigantic :  all  round  you,  to  the 
north  and  to  the  west,  entire  towns  are  at  this  very 
hour  springing  up  as  fast  as  the  armies  of  masons  can 
lay  brick  to  brick,  and  all  of  them  will  be  quickly 
filled  by  thousands,  whose  lives  will  be  spent  in  close 
contact  with  yours,  working  for  your  needs,  called 
thither  by  your  wants,  knit  up  by  countless  threads 
into  the  life  that  you  live,  into  the  commonwealth 
that  you  share.  Let  me  implore  you  to  remember  that 
this  swarming  and  multitudinous  city  is  no  horrible 
evil,  which  you  are  to  relieve  with  your  charity ;  it  is 
no  huge  disease,  whose  worst  bitterness  you  are  begged 
to  assuage.  This  city,  in  its  strong  and  wonderful 
immensity,  is  as  high  and  superb  an  ideal  as  that 
imperial  system  of  old  Eome.  Such  a  city  is  the 
fullest  and  noblest  expression  of  that  supreme  effort  of 
mankind  which  we  call  civilization  :  it  is  the  triumph 
of  combination,  the  crown  of  friendly  and  orderly 


250 


The  Powers  that  be. 


intercourse  between  man  and  man.  Only  by  tlie 
subtlest  skill,  only  by  untiring  labour,  only  by  most 
tender,  and  manifold,  and  delicate  mechanism,  can  its 
hourly  existence  be  sustained.  Into  such  a  city  are 
gathered  the  stored  forces  which  create  history:  these 
multitudes  are  drawn  into  its  net  by  the  movement  of 
the  deepest  human  energies.  Such  a  city  is  the  achieve- 
ment of  large  spiritual  impulse  :  it  is  pre-eminent  among 
the  "  powers  that  be :  "  "  it  is  ordained  of  God." 

Here,  then,  is  our  task  ;  here,  and  nowhere  else.  This 
is  our  trial  hour.  Can  we,  or  can  we  not,  Christianize 
this  fresh  fashion  of  human  life,  for  God  and  for  his  Son  ? 

History  will  not  ask  whether,  in  nooks  or  corners  of 
London,  a  few  faithful  met  together  to  praise  and  worship 
God.  It  will  ask,  was  the  Church  faithful  to  the  big 
work  to  which  she  was  summoned  ?  As  of  old  she 
encountered  and  won  imperial  Home,  and  banded 
Vandalism,  so  now,  did  she  once  again  rise  to  the  new  » 
task  ?  Did  she  run  the  course  set  before  her  ?  Did 
she  seal  to  God  the  powers  of  the  great  cities  ?  Did 
she  enlarge  herself  to  the  measure  of  the  new  organiza- 
tion ?  Did  she  learn  and  use  the  secret  of  combina- 
tion ?  Did  she  discipline  herself  to  the  handling  of  vast 
masses  ?  Had  she  the  courage  for  this  ?  Had  she  the 
largeness  of  heart  ?  Had  she  the  confidence  in  herself  ? 
Had  she  the  generous  trust  in  others  which  alone  could 
make  it  possible  ?  Had  she  the  inspiration  of  faith  ? 
Had  she  the  splendour  of  love  ? 

Or  did  she  quail  ?  Did  she  shrink  up,  creep,  and  fear  ? 
Was  she  poor,  and  thin,  and  niggardly,  in  her  attempts  ? 
Was  she  weak  and  insufficient  ?    Did  she  abandon  the 


Tiie  Powers  that  be. 


huge  hordes  of  crowded  men  to  that  ruin  which  she  knew 
would  he  inevitable,  unless  Christ  became  their  Master, 
unless  Christian  faith  bonded  them  into  that  communion 
which  alone  hallows  and  endures?  These  are  the 
questions  to  which  we,  in  our  generation,  are  asked 
to  give  answer. 

It  may  not  surely  be  that  this  National  Church  of 
ours  will  be  content  to  ignore  or  falsify  her  claims  to  run 
level  with  the  national  life :  she  has  responsibilities 
which  it  is  criminal  to  decline,  and  these  responsibilities 
compel  her  to  make  sure  that  her  labours  be  no  narrower 
in  their  scope  than  those  of  the  entire  nation.  What 
England  does,  the  Church  of  Emdand  must  not  be 
afraid  to  do ;  and  England  is  now  massing  her  works 
and  population,  as  she  never  massed  them  before.  The 
Church,  then,  must  forward  her  energies  with  no  stint- 
ing hand,  with  no  captious  or  suspicious  heart,  if  she  is 
not  to  fail  England  at  the  critical  hour. 

Nor  is  it  England  only  that  she  will  fail :  it  is  God, — 
God  the  Father,  Who  summoned  her  to  undertake  :  He  it 
is  Who  moves  (unseen,  yet  felt)  this  whole  heaving  world 
of  men:  His  breath  impels  and  shifts  these  massing 
multitudes  :  He  shapes  their  destiny:  He  prepares  their 
paths ;  and  yet  they  know  Him  not !  They  cannot  know 
Him,  until  the  Son,  the  Beloved,  the  only  Righteous, 
stands  before  them  in  human  flesh,  in  living  Presence, 
to  show  them  plainly  of  the  Father. 

The  Father,  in  His  silent,  unseen  working,  desires 
with  strong  longing  to  know  His  own,  and  to  be  known 
of  them :  and  He  cannot  make  Himself  plain  to  them, 
except  through  the  face  of  Christ  Jesus,  His  Son.  For  that 


252 


The  Powers  that  be. 


hour  of  Revelation  all  His  vast  creation  travaileth  and 
groaneth.  And  we — we  hold  it  back :  we  let  or  hinder 
it :  it  is  in  our  hands  to  bid  the  Revelation  open :  it  is 
in  our  hands  to  suffer  the  Father  to  meet  and  embrace 
His  children  :  it  lies  with  us  to  allow  the  Word  to  come 
unto  His  own,  to  find  and  gather  in  all  that  the  Father 
has  patiently  and  laboriously  drawn  towards  Him. 

It  is  the  Father  "Who  cries  to  us  out  of  the  Eternal 
Silence  in  which  He  ever  labours  and  hopes.  He  has 
laid  His  hands  upon  the  multitude,  shaping  them  for  His 
Son:  He  has  prepared  the  way.  How  ?  He  has  taught 
them  the  large  hopes  of  brotherhood  :  He  has  instructed 
them  to  combine, — to  hold  by  one  another,  to  trust  one 
another ;  and  lo !  He  waits  that  we  may  interpret  to 
them  the  secret  of  all  fraternity,  of  all  combination, — 
the  secret  of  Jesus,  in  whom  they  may  all  become 
members  one  of  another ;  of  one  Body,  of  one  Spirit,  of 
one  Hope,  one  Lord:  He  has  quickened  their  instincts, 
their  sympathies,  their  aspirations,  that,  out  of  the 
sharpness  of  disappointment,  out  of  the  bitter  and  keen 
anxieties,  out  of  the  restless  fears  of  impatience,  they 
may  be  ready  to  know  and  receive  the  everlasting 
consolation  of  His  dear  Son ;  that  they  may  understand 
the  power  of  the  Passion,  the  victory  of  His  Cross,  the 
peace  of  His  Resurrection. 

They  groan  in  pain,  toiling  for  no  end,  suffering 
without  hope ;  shaken  and  tossed  by  the  shocks  and 
storms  of  a  troublesome,  tumultuous  world ;  thrown  up 
and  down,  from  wealth  to  poverty,  by  laws  which  they 
cannot  master,  by  accidents  beyond  their  control,  amid 
riches  they  may  not  share,  though  they  know  not  why,  in 


The  Powers  that  be. 


253 


sight  of  endless  plenty,  which  they  may  not  touch;  held 
in,  and  hedged,  and  confined  by  necessities  which  they 
never  made,  and  in  which  they  see  no  purpose  nor 
benefit.  Their  children  starve,  yet  they  may  not  steal : 
diseases  rack  them,  and  miseries  depress,  yet  none 
comes  to  succour,  no  man  helps.  How  may  they  ever 
gain  peace,  and  comfort,  and  belief,  unless  we  will  suffer 
the  dear  Lord  of  all  consolation,  the  Man  of  Sorrows, 
the  Prince  of  Life,  to  draw  near  to  them,  and  touch, 
and  heal  ? 

Oh  that  we  may  not,  by  blind  indifference,  by  careless 
sloth,  hold  Him  back !  Oh  that  we  may  help  to  let 
Him  in,  amid  their  streets,  at  their  doors,  to  their  beds 
of  suffering  and  death  :  that  He,  through  us,  may  see  at 
last  of  the  travail  of  His  soul,  and  be  gladL 


SERMON  XVII. 

THE  SWORD  OF  ST.  MICHAEL. 

"  BHjcre  teas  foar  tn  fyrabrn:  fHicljarl  anli  fjis  angrls  fought  against 
tfjc  Dragon." — Rev.  xii.  7. 

The  very  exhaustiveness  of  the  Gospel  of  Christ  consti- 
tutes its  chief  peril.  Its  reach  and  scope  are  so  large, 
that  the  lines  of  connection,  which  hold  it  fast  into 
consistent  unity,  lose  themselves,  vanish,  outspan  our 
sight.  We  cannot  follow  them  home,  and  are  thus 
thrown  back  upon  the  one  refuge  for  the  baffled  brain, 
•—the  use  of  paradox.  Paradox  is  the  expedient  by 
which  our  thought  expresses  its  sense,  its  intuition, 
its  anticipation,  of  an  underlying  unity  which  it  can- 
not thoroughly  master  or  unravel.  It  detects  the  action 
of  a  single  principle  throughout  a  mass  of  dissimilar 
incidents.  It  sees  too  little  to  be  able  to  exhibit  the 
singleness  of  the  principle  amid  all  its  variable  and 
intricate  transformations;  but  it  sees  enough  to  be 
sure,  by  some  touch  of  living  instinct,  of  the  profound 
and  dominant  unity  which  all  this  intricacy  makes 
manifest.  And  in  order  to  give  force  and  insistance 
to  a  truth  which  it  cannot  adequately  express,  it 
summons  in  the  imagination  to  its  aid, — it  seizes  on 
the  two  most  extreme  and  contradictory  of  all  the 
manifestations, — and,  by  the  very  act  of  placing  them 


The  Sword  of  St.  M ichael.  255 


in  startling  neighbourhood  the  one  to  the  other,  it 
emphasizes  their  real,  yet  hidden,  similarity. 

Thus  it  is  that  the  Christian  faith  revels  in  paradox. 
It  delights  in  binding  together  in  one  statements 
apparently  intense  in  their  mutual  opposition.  The 
further  it  pushed  its  intellectual  conquests,  the  more 
vivid  and  extreme  became  its  sense  of  the  power  that 
lies  in  the  recognition  of  paradox, — the  more  secure  its 
confidence  in  the  reconciliation  of  contradictions.  Its 
deepest  heart  throbbed  in  response  to  the  reverberant 
counter-song  of  the  Creed  of  Athanasius :  "  Three  who 
are  Lord,  yet  but  one  Lord ;  three  who  are  God,  yet 
one  God  ;  three  Almighty,  yet  one  Almighty ; "  its 
whole  soul  rose  to  the  great  repudiation  of  Pelagius, 
as  it  cried,  with  the  strong  voice  of  St.  Paul,  "  I  live : 
yet  not  I,  but  Christ  liveth  in  me;"  for,  indeed,  in 
the  pronouncement  of  these  far-reaching  oppositions,  it 
felt  itself  in  possession  of  that  infinite  truth  which 
holdeth  all  in  one,  and  stretcheth  from  end  to  end, 
and  is  never  broken.  It  knew  its  power,  and  its 
triumphant  glee  could  not  conceal  its  victory,  as  it 
broke  out  in  creed,  or  collect,  or  hymn:  The  Word 
of  the  Lord  is  a  double-edged  sword :  it  turneth  this 
way  and  that. 

But  this  double  character  has  its  natural  dancer. 
At  the  slightest  weakening  of  the  high  tension  which 
paradox  expresses,  we  slide  into  the  easier  and 
lazier  course  of  contenting  ourselves  with  one  or 
other  of  the  opposing  sides  of  our  truth.  This 
has  been  familiar  enough  in  the  history  of  heresy: 
perhaps  it  is  hardly  so  familiar  in  the  moral  domain. 


256  The  Sword  of  St.  Michael. 


Yet  that  paradoxical  character  of  the  Christian  creed, 
which  lias  left  its  mark  so  forcibly  upon  its  theology,  is 
no  less  remarkable  in  its  moral  aspirations  and  develop- 
ment. There,  too,  Christ  revealed,  as  embraced  within 
the  compass  of  a  single  principle,  actions  and  effects  of 
intensely  opposite  tendency:  "Blessed  are  the  hungry; 
they  shall  be  filled."  "  Blessed  are  the  meek ;  they 
shall  inherit  the  earth."  "  He  that  loseth  his  life  shall 
save  it."  "  He  that  saveth  his  life  shall  lose  it."  So 
ran  the  startling  message,  and  as  men  stood  bewildered 
with  vague  awe  at  words  so  double-sided,  they  found 
themselves  uplifted  to  the  level  of  their  solution  by  the 
impulse  of  a  compelling  faith  in  Him  in  Whom  paradox 
attains  its  climax  of  astounding  surprise,  yet  attains  it 
without  extravagance,  without  strain,  without  effort, 
without  violence,  in  the  perfect  peace  of  assured  fulfil- 
ment— in  the  ease  and  the  cpuiet  of  a  natural,  an 
irresistible  reconciliation.  For,  indeed,  where  was  there 
to  be  found  one  trace  of  discordant  contradiction  in 
Him,  Who  was  at  once  absolute  Lord  and  absolute 
Servant  of  all ;  of  Him  Who  lived  that  He  might  die, 
and  died  that  He  might  live ;  of  Him  Who  claimed  the 
entire  control  and  possession  of  our  whole  will,  and 
heart,  and  soul,  on  the  ground  that  He,  and  no  one  else, 
was  meek,  and  lowly,  and  submissive ;  of  Him  Who 
obtained  and  demanded  all  glory,  because  He  sought 
not  His  own  glory ;  and  could  do  all  things  that  the 
Father  doeth,  because  He  could  of  His  own  self  do 
nothing  ;  of  Him,  in  one  phrase,  Who  was  Son  of  God 
because  He  was  the  Son  of  Man  ? 

There  are  two  opposing  sides,  then,  to  the  moral 


The  Sword  of  St.  Michael. 


257 


character  instilled  by  the  graces  of  Christ,  just  as  much 
as  there  is  a  double-sided  opposition  in  the  intellectual 
expression  of  the  Godhead,  revealed  in  Christ;  and 
morally  as  well  as  intellectually,  therefore,  we  have  to 
guard  against  any  one-sided  development— against  any 
jealous  exaltation  of  a  single  factor  of  the  opposition. 
Such  partiality  would  be  a  moral  heresy,  however  true 
its  actual  aim,  however  pure  its  aspiration  ;  just  as  any 
attempt  to  ignore  the  counter-side  of  a  theological  position 
becomes  intellectual  heresy,  however  exact  and  genuine 
the  actual  statement  itself  may  be.  It  is  heretical  not 
because  it  is  wrong,  but  because  it  is  partial,  because  it 
is  deficient.  Let  us  try  to  recall  the  double  and  Divine 
aspects  of  the  Christian's  spiritual  manifestation,  that 
so  we  may  know  more  surely  whether  we  stand  at  all  in 
peril  of  such  moral  partiality,  such  moral  heresy. 

The  Christian  character,  then,  may  be  compared,  on 
the  one  hand,  to  the  leaven  which  leaveneth  the  whole 
lump;  to  the  mustard-seed,  which  groweth  110  man 
knoweth  how,  until,  from  being  the  smallest,  it  in- 
creaseth  to  be  the  largest  of  herbs,  and  the  birds  can 
lodge  in  the  branches  thereof.  Here  is  a  familiar  and 
most  beautiful  ideal !  This  secret,  mysterious,  unseen 
growth,  by  which,  below  all  outward  surfaces,  beneath 
all  form,  and  show,  and  fashion,  in  the  hidden  place, 
in  the  quiet  chambers  of  the  soul, — there,  where  no 
eve  penetrates,  no  sound  disturbs,  no  tumult  dis- 
arrays, no  vanity  deceives, — there,  where  the  roots  and 
fibres  of  the  spirit  run  back  into  the  deep  silence 
of  God's  awful  presence,  and  drain  from  His  dark 
founts  their  unnoticed   supplies,  and   feed   on  His 

it 


258  T he  Sword  of  St.  Michael. 


secret  food,  which  He  delivers,  hy  hands  invisible  and 
unfelt,  out  of  His  own  incomprehensible  fulness, — there, 
where  there  is  hushed  and  breathless  stillness  upon 
angel  and  archangel,  as  with  open  eyes  they  gaze  on 
the  Hiding  of  God's  power,  on  that  process  of  con- 
descending love  in  the  might  of  which  God  lowers 
Himself  to  secrecy  and  concealment,  and  is  content  to 
*  creep  into  our  hearts  through  dark  passages  and  over- 
looked ways,  to  creep  as  a  thief  in  the  night,  under 
the  cloud  of  shame  and  contempt,  into  the  houses  of 
our  souls,  whose  doors  we  have  barred  and  bolted 
against  free  and  open  entry,  to  creep  as  a  thief,  digging 
through  the  wall  at  an  hour  when  no  man  knoweth,  in 
mean  disguise,  with  noiseless  tread,  unsuspected,  un- 
announced, unforeseen, — there,  at  the  dim  base  of  our 
innermost  being,  where  God  waits  in  unspeaking 
patience  to  instil  His  grace,  drop  by  drop,  slowly  and 
lengthily,  into  our  graceless  and  unready  minds ; — this 
marvellous  growth,  by  which  God  succeeds  in  per- 
vading and  penetrating  our  life  by  continual,  unceasing 
effort,  day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour,  until  at  last  He 
has  won  complete  acceptance,  and  has  moulded  the 
whole  man  in  us  anew  to  His  liking,  and  can  move 
forward  into  fuller  use,  into  nobler  attainment;  and 
can  show  out  His  Divine  glory ;  and  can  make  His 
presence  felt  and  revealed ;  and  can  gather  in  new 
stuff  to  the  work ;  and  can  spread,  and  enlarge,  and 
increase,  and  break  out  on  every  side,  so  that  the  man 
becomes  a  living  expression  of  God,  a  lump  leavened 
through  and  through  by  the  lively  ferment  of  the 
infused  Divinity ;  and  men,  his  fellows,  are  startled  to 


The  Sword  of  St.  Michael.  259 


find  themselves  in  the  sudden  neighbourhood  of  a  Holy 
Thing;  and  all  gifts,  and  joys,  and  pleasures  discover 
themselves  to  be  lodged  within  this  outgrowth  of  God, 
as  bright  birds  that  live,  and  throb,  and  sing  within  the 
mustard-seed  branches ; — this  marvellous  and  lovely 
growth,  the  blessed  fruit  of  Christ's  wonderful  Incar- 
nation, may  well  fill  our  hearts  with  amazement,  and 
delight,  and  endless  thanksgiving.  Who,  indeed,  can 
ever  tire  of  watching  and  telling  all  the  beauty  of  the 
character  formed  on  this  ideal  ?  Such  a  character, 
slowly  built  up,  slowly  perfected,  inexplicable  in  its 
working,  yet  so  obvious,  so  intelligible,  so  unmistakable 
in  its  action,  captivates  us  by  the  very  invisibility,  the 
very  mystery  of  its  peculiar  charm.  We  are  in  the 
company,  let  us  say,  of  men  or  women,  like  ourselves, — 
such  as  move  amid  human  circumstance,  busy  in  our 
worldly  business,  amid  the  toils  and  sordid  cares  that 
eat  away  our  souls, — of  our  household,  or  of  our 
company.  No  lofty  task,  no  immense  and  ennobling 
responsibility  is  laid  upon  them,  but  only  the  trivial 
round  of  daily  things — the  fretting  littleness  of  un- 
noticeable  anxieties.  No  halo  glitters  above  their 
heads;  no  large  and  moving  tragedies  hedge  them 
round  with  Divine  enthusiasm.  Nothing  marks  them 
out;  nothing  signifies  their  coming  or  their  going. 
They  make  no  prominent  claims;  they  shrink  from 
public  gaze ;  they  have,  it  may  be,  no  position,  no 
remarkable  gifts,  no  ambitious  expectations.  Yet,  as  we 
look,  as  we  watch,  as  we  live  with  them,  what  breath  is 
it  of  sweet,  and  strange,  and  unknown  odours  that 
steals  from  their  souls  to  ours !    What  unearthly  power 


2  bo  The  Siuord  of  St.  Michael. 


is  it  that  moves  in  their  movements,  and  fills  every 
look,  every  motion,  with  help,  and  wonder,  and  attrac- 
tion, and  comfort,  and  delight !  What  soft  and  holy 
grace  is  it  that  plays  about  their  presence,  and  calms  ns 
when  they  are  near,  and  draws  us  closer  and  closer  to 
their  confidence,  to  their  intimacy,  and  quells  rebellious 
imaginations,  and  speaks  of  peace,  and  of  purity,  and  of 
every  lovely  thing !  How  helpful  are  their  hands  !  how 
inexhaustible  the  deep  sympathies  in  their  eyes  and  in 
their  hearts !  How  tender,  and  gracious,  and  lowly, 
and  unselfish  is  all  their  activity  !  How  full  and  rich 
the  sound  of  their  voices  !  How  gladsome  and  cheering 
their  entry  •  how  dismal  their  going !  And  if  sorrow 
strikes  us,  how  surely  our  hearts  turn  to  them !  how 
confidingly  we  give  ourselves  up  to  their  undoubted 
delicacy  of  touch !  How  prevailing,  how  persuasive, 
is  their  goodness !  How  blessed  is  their  publishment 
of  peace  !  Whence  is  it  that  they  draw  their  strength  ? 
From  what  land  of  far  delight  do  they  bring  good 
news  of  great  joy  to  a  world  without  them  so  comfort- 
less, so  unsatisfied,  so  dismaying !  O  blessed,  thrice 
blessed,  this  secret  working  of  Him  Who  hid  His  glory 
in  a  virgin's  womb ;  of  Him  Who  strove  not,  neither 
cried  in  the  streets,  and  yet  brought  out  judgment 
unto  victory !  "  Is  not  this  the  carpenter's  Son  ?  the 
Son  of  Joseph  and  Mary  ?  Whence,  then,  hath  He 
this  wisdom?"  The  Brother  of  James,  and  John,  and 
Simon,  and  Judas  ?  And  His  sisters — we  know  them — 
are  they  not  still  with  us  ?  Yet,  verily,  He  is  come 
down  from  Heaven.  "  He  is  the  Bread  of  Heaven,  the 
Living  Bread,  of  which  if  any  man  eat,  he  shall  not  die, 
but  have  everlasting  life  !" 


The  Sword  of  St.  Michael.  261 


Here,  then,  is  one  side  of  the  Christ-bearing  character. 
It  grows  within  the  womb  of  flesh.  It  hides,  it  works 
in  secret,  in  the  night,  when  men  sleep  ;  slowly,  in- 
visibly, by  degrees,  it  enl  irges,  it  leavens  the  lump. 
But  here  begins  the  moral  paradox.  This  very  same 
character  has  another  a  s-pect, — takes  an  entirely  different 
form.  There  are  counter-pictures  given  us  to  that  of 
the  leaven.  There  is  a  world  of  imagery  taken  from 
light,  from  fire,  from  salt,  from  the  sword,  from  the 
wedding,  from  things  that  flash,  and  glitter,  and  smite, 
and  sting;  and  here,  to-day,  while  still  we  stand  within 
the  light  of  Michaelmas,  I  cannot  but  single  out  that 
one  supreme  expression  of  this  counter-ideal,  which  we 
yesterday  commemorated.  If  we  want  to  express  the 
warrior-aspect  of  our  spiritual  life,  we  know  no  nobler, 
no  more  inspiring  image  than  that  of  St.  Michael, 
captain  of  the  great  hosts  of  the  God  of  Sabaoth. 

St.  Michael !  Prince  of  the  Most  High  !  Ah !  our 
life,  meek,  gentle,  hidden,  as  it  may  rightly  be,  has 
something  in  it  of  another  fashion.  It  is  not  all  secret, 
all  mild,  all  subdued  and  submissive.  This  it  is;  but 
with  this  it  has  something  more, — something  utterly 
different.  It  has  in  it  a  touch  of  fire,  a  scent  of  flame. 
It  has  in  it  the  tingling  of  loud  trumpets,  the  ring  of 
keen  and  quivering  swords.  The  breath  of  St.  Michael 
is  astir  within  its  heart,  and  his  glory  kindles  upon 
its  head.  St.  Michael !  how  strangely  changed  is  our 
ideal  from  that  on  which  we  dwelt  under  the  image  of 
the  leaven,  or  the  mustard-seed  '  St.  Michael,  Prince 
and  Captain  !  he  it  is  now  who  leads  and  shapes  our 
moral  history.    After  him,  we  follow.    In  his  name  we 


262 


The  Sword  of  St.  Michael. 


stand  enrolled.  St.  Michael !  how  he  flashes  as  he 
moves !  how  swift  the  lightning  of  his  flight !  how 
terrible  the  shining  of  his  eyes,  and  his  sword,  that 
leapeth  as  a  living  flame !  Like  the  wind,  he  springs 
down  from  on  high  !  he  hurls  his  glory  from  the  heights 
of  heaven !  He  follows  hard  after  him  who  fell  as  a 
star.  He  shoots  along  the  sky ;  he  smites  like  a 
thunderbolt ;  he  pierces,  he  slays  with  every  motion  of 
his  glittering  spear !  Who  does  not  know  him,  hung 
as  Eaphael  saw  him,  above  the  foe,  whom,  with  one 
stroke  of  his  passing  wings — with  one  flying  look  of 
awful  scorn — with  one  touch  of  his  pointed  steel,  he 
has  smitten  into  writhing  and  powerless  ruin  ?  Or  who, 
indeed,  can  forbear  to  remember  him  whom  Perugino 
painted  with  a  deeper  mind — him  who  stands,  young, 
ruddy,  strong,  triumphant,  girt  with  shining  armour, 
belted  and  greaved,  yet  swift,  ready,  and  at  ease ;  with 
free,  uncovered  face,  and  the  wind  moving  in  his  hair, 
as  he  waits  with  his  hand  upon  sword  and  shield,  in  the 
pause  between  task  and  task,  poised  at  rest  in  the  even- 
ing stillness,  before  another  day  dawn,  and  his  labours 
begin  anew  ?  How  invincible  the  beauty  of  his  mouth  ! 
how  large  and  enduring  the  patience  in  his  eyes !  how 
quick,  how  generous,  how  radiant,  how  untiring  his 
glorious  service !  He  has  done  much ;  he  has  fought 
and  won ;  but  not  yet  is  he  weary.  He  looks  round, 
after  all  his  long  labour,  to  see  if  there  be  not  yet  some 
deliverance  that  he  might  work  before  the  night  come. 
Call  upon  him,  even  now,  and  he  will  answer.  Sum- 
mon him,  and  he  will  save. 

Such  is  St.  Michael,  Captain  and  Deliverer,  swift, 


The  Sword  of  St.  Michael. 


263 


sudden,  irresistible;  and  in  the  light  of  his  indarted 
splendour — in  the  glory  of  his  coining — evil  reveals 
the  full  horror  of  its  naked  and  disgusting  deformity. 
It  no  longer  drapes  itself  in  fair  veils,  nor  pours  round 
itself  a  concealing  vapour  of  soft  and  melting  delight. 
It  is  no  longer  that  mixed,  indefinite  thing,  of  changing 
shape  and  shifting  hues,  which  is  so  intricately  inter- 
mingled with  all  that  is  good,  and  pure,  and  holy, 
that  we  know  not  where  to  lay  our  finger  on  it,  or 
where  to  denounce  it,  or  what  to  purge  and  uproot, 
and  burn  and  destroy.  No;  it  is  driven,  by  that  swift 
insight  of  the  warrior  angel,  out  of  all  shape  and  dis- 
gnise.  It  knows  the  touch  of  that  penetrating  steel: 
it  tumbles  down  into  hideous  confusion  under  the 
mastery  of  his  eye.  It  creeps,  and  crawls,  and  writhes 
at  his  feet  in  its  bare  reality,  a  vile,  brutal,  base, 
and  hateful  thing, — a  thing  at  which  our  gorge  rises, — 
grotesque  as  Dante  saw  it,  sickening,  ugly,  repulsive. 

The  Christian,  then,  is  not  only  a  penitent, —not  only 
a  sufferer, — not  only  a  poor,  and  meek,  and  gentle 
slave  of  Christ:  all  this  he  is — all  this,  by  the  very 
law  of  his  forgiveness — by  the  first  principle  of  his 
deliverance  out  of  sin  into  life — he  must  be.  In  all 
this,  he  begins.  It  is  the  root  from  which  his  whole 
being  draws  its  succour  of  grace.  It  is  the  ground  oi 
all  blessing:  "Blessed  are  the  poor  in  heart."  It  is 
the  very  secret  of  his  call  to  Christ :  "  Come  unto  Me, 
all  ye  that  labour  and  are  heavy  laden ; "  "  Learn  of 
Me,  for  I  am  meek  and  lowly  of  heart."  Here  are  the 
foundations :  here  is  the  spring  and  source  of  all  life. 
But  the  perfected  Christian  cannot  rightly  stop  there : 


264  T/ie  Sword  of  St.  Michael. 


he  is  to  be  a  soldier  as  well  as  a  sufferer.  He  carries 
a  sword  as  well  as  a  cross.  He  moves,  indeed,  witli 
tears  and  shame  ;  but  lie  moves  also  with  "lee,  with 
courage,  with  defiance.  Not  that  the  one  character  is 
inconsistent  with  the  other :  nor  is  the  cne  to  be  pitted 
against  the  other.  Neither  of  them  discredits  or 
repels  the  other :  rather  is  it  true  that  the  one  tends 
to  produce  the  other.  He  who  is  perfected  in  meek- 
ness wins  to  himself  the  grace  of  force  and  courage. 
He  who  stoops  discovers  himself  to  be  more  than 
conqueror.  He  who  bends  himself  to  receive  the 
humility  and  gentleness  of  the  Spirit  finds  himself 
gifted  with-  the  sword  of  the  Spirit.  He  who  gives 
his  back  to  the  smiter  is,  by  the  powerful  efficacy  of 
that  very  act,  girt  round  with  the  whole  armour  of 
God,  with  shield,  and  breastplate,  and  helm.  Yes  !  in 
very  weakness  he  is  strong — strong  by  the  high  grace 
of  Him  Who  reconciled  both  in  one  man  ;  of  Him  Who, 
though  He  strove  not,  neither  cried,  yet  had  a  voice  of 
thunder,  and  a  sword  of  flame,  for  Pharisee,  and  Sadducee, 
and  Scribe ;  of  Him  Who,  though  Ho  might  be  led  as  a 
lamb  to  the  slaughter,  and  be  dumb  as  a  sheep  under  the 
shearer,  yet  uttered  a  cry  of  woe,  and  vengeance,  and  war, 
and  judgment,  not  one  whit  less  severe,  not  one  whit  less 
relentless,  than  the  cry  of  the  Baptist  amid  the  rocks  of 
Jordan  :  "  Woe  unto  you,  hypocrites  !  ye  fools  and  blind  ! 
Woe  unto  you,  ye  serpents,  ye  generation  of  vipers  !  how 
can  ye  escape  the  damnation  of  hell  ? " 

My  brethren,  beloved  in  the  Lord  !  you  1  who  have 
received,  and  you  who  hope  to  receive,  the  awful 

1  Preached  to  the  members  of  the  Clergy  School,  Leeds. 


The  Sword  of  St.  Michael.  265 


sanction  of  the  priesthood,  I  want  you  to  consider 
whether  woof  the  Anglican  ministry  have  been  loyal 
to  the  full  ideal  of  this  double-sided  character  of  Christ, 
One  side,  indeed,  we  probably  have  already,  by  prayer 
and  aspiration,  set  before  our  souls,  to  be  desired  of 
God.    The  ideal  of  the  leaven  has  never,  in  spite  of 
all  our  terrible  falls,  failed  to  work  and  to  gather  in 
examples  of  its  wondrous  loveliness,  in  our  English 
Church.    Always  there  have  been  those  whose  ministry 
was  found  to  possess  that  hidden  force  which  works 
from  within  the   secret   chambers  of  the  soul,  and 
subtly  penetrates  on  the  right  hand  and  ou  the  left, 
in  the  dark  night  when  no   eye   sees;    that  force 
which  creeps  like  a  tide,  with  noiseless  motion,  with 
unceasing  advance,  until  men  wake  up  astonished  to 
find  themselves  encompassed  by  the  wide  waters  of 
Divine  and  mysterious  love.    Meek,  holy,  pure,  gentle, 
sacred  souls,  whose  patience  has  had  its  reward,  whose 
labour  has  hallowed  the  earth  in  God's  Name,  blessed 
are  your  lives,  your  services,  your  prayers  !   Blessed  are 
ye,  the  salt  of  the  Church  !  the  light  of  all  our  day, 
the  comfort  of  our  eyes  through  dark  hours,  and  dusty 
ways,  and  weary  years  of  distress  !    So  good,  so  true, 
so  enticing  has  their  high  example  been,  that  I  need  not 
stay  to  express  what  they  have  so  richly  taught.  But 
we  have  still  to  ask  ourselves  the  further  question, 
we  have  yet  to  rem,  ..her  the  counter-side  of  the 
Christian  paradox:  Have  we,  as  a  ministry— have  we, 
as  individual  ministers— had  enough  of  the  spirit  of 
St.  Michael  in  our  moral  life?  in  our  moral  ideal  ?  I 
want  you  to  ask  yourselves  this  question,  each  in  the 


266  The  Sword  of  St.  Michael. 


way  he  knows  best.  Have  we,  as  a  priesthood,  in  the 
history  behind  us,  shone  in  upon  the  dark  and  cruel 
habitations  of  this  world  with  the  sudden  glory  of 
deliverance  ?  Have  we  flashed  in,  with  the  splendour 
of  the  warrior  angel,  to  succour  the  oppressed  ?  to 
bid  the  captive  go  free  ?  We  have  spoken  of  peace 
— well  enough ;  but  have  we  sold  our  coat  to  buy  a 
sword  ?  Have  we  avenged  the  heathen,  and  rebuked 
the  people  ?  Have  we  bound  their  kings  in  chains,  or 
their  nobles  with  links  of  iron  ?  The  praises  of  God 
have  been  in  our  mouths;  but  has  there  been  a  two- 
edged  sword  of  the  Spirit  in  our  hands  ?  Where  has 
been  the  Helm  of  salvation  ?  where  the  spear  of 
St.  Michael?  We  have  toiled  for  the  relief  of  the 
poor  and  the  xxnhappy ;  but  have  we  toiled  for  their 
release,  for  their  deliverance,  for  their  enfranchisement  ? 
We  have  comforted  ;  but  have  we  set  free  ?  Have  we 
broken  bonds  in  sunder?  Have  we  thrown  open  the 
cruel  gates  of  brass  ?  We  have  pleaded  ;  but  have  we 
denounced  ?  We  have  listened  in  the  secret  chambers  ; 
1  nit  have  we  proclaimed  upon  the  housetops?  We 
have  moved  with  the  still  secrecy  of  the  wind  ;  but 
have  we  leaped  with  the  power  of  the  flame  ?  We 
have  refreshed  with  cool  waters ;  but  have  we  run  and 
kindled,  as  a  fire  ?  And  yet,  if  not,  why  not  ?  Has 
there  been  no  need  ?  Is  there  no  need  now  ?  Ah,  my 
friends,  we  know  too  well  to  our  bitter  shame  what  it 
is  in  the  midst  of  which  we  stand  ! — we,  who  have 
seen  and  touched,  however  briefly,  the  wild  life  that 
rages  up  and  down  the  crowded  and  reeking  streets  of 
our  vast  cities, — the  cruelties,  the  brutalities  that  rend 


The  Sword  of  St.  Michael. 


267 


and  tear;  the  wicked  selfishness,  the  heartless  indiffer- 
ence, that  deaden,  and  corrupt,  and  blind;  the  sensu- 
ality that  devours ;  the  gambling  that  maddens ;  the 
pride  that  tramples ;  the  ambition  that  slaughters ; 
the  violence  that  tyrannizes;  the  covetousness  that 
feeds  on  blood ;  the  loathsome  diseases  of  the  soul, 
that  sicken,  and  debase,  and  kill.  We  know  the 
sins,  large,  and  gross,  and  vile,  not  of  individuals,  but 
of  classes.  We  know  the  villanies  which  society 
perpetrates  in  the  mass, — villanies  at  which  any 
single  member  of  society  would  shudder  with  horror, 
We  know  the  enormous  evils  of  mere  heedlessness 
in  wealth,  of  mere  carelessness  in  luxury,  of  mere 
recklessness  in  commerce.  We  know  how  whole 
masses  are  driven  under  by  the  mere  pressure 
of  competition — driven  down  into  that  dark  and 
tyrannous  domain  of  ignorance  or  crime,  of  drink  or 
lust.  We  know  how  herds  of  men  and  women  are 
shoved  and  huddled  along  the  hard  roads  of  a  dreary 
world,  without  hope,  without  light,  without  comfort, 
without  grace,  without  God.  We  know  how  many 
souls  lie  shut  up  in  dull  and  dumb  despair,  whom  the 
sickness  of  doubt  has  troubled,  and  discoloured,  and 
withered.  All  this  we  see  with  fearful  eyes  and  failing 
hearts.  We  know  it  but  too  well.  No  need  for 
St.  Michael !  Oh,  when  was  the  need  more  sore  ? 
when  was  the  cry  for  help  more  loud  and  dreadful  ? 
The  Church  has  her  task  clear  and  decisive  before  her 
— the  task  not  only  to  work  within  the  heart  of  all  this 
trouble  in  the  gracious  activities  of  consolation ;  but 
more  than  this — in   complete  consistency  with  this 


268  The  Sword  of  St.  Michael. 


inward  work — to  come  clown  from  above  as  a  deliverer; 
to  break  in  as  the  day-spring  from  on  high.  Men  who 
lie,  bound  with  chains,  between  soldiers,  ought  to  feel 
her  shine  in  their  prison  as  an  angel,  as  she  smites 
them  on  the  side,  and  raises  them  up,  bidding  them 
rise  up  quickly,  so  that  the  chains  fall  off  from  their 
hands.  The  Church  has  her  high  task  of  emancipation. 
But  how  has  she  fulfilled  it  ?  Do  men,  who  lie  in  sore 
need,  in  oppression,  in  social  degradation,  look  to  the 
Church — look  to  us,  her  priests,  to  be  to  them  as  their 
St.  Michael— to  save  and  deliver?  Do  men,  in  the 
pride  of  selfish  power — in  the  lust  of  reckless  success — 
fear  the  Church  or  fear  her  priests  ?  Do  they  hear  her 
loud  judgments — her  swift  denunciations  ?  Do  they 
feel  her  victorious  spear,  as  Satan  feels  the  onset  of 
St.  Michael  ?  Does  her  sword  smite  ?  Are  the  vast 
sins  of  society  seen,  and  detected,  and  condemned  by 
the  glory  of  her  eyes  ?  Are  they  devoured  by  the  flame 
of  her  wrath  ? 

My  brethren,  these  are  no  idle  questions.  They 
search,  they  pierce  ;  they  may  not  be  gainsaid.  I  know 
not  whether,  at  this  hour  of  England's  life,  there  are 
to  be  found  for  us  ministers  of  the  Church  questions 
more  urgent  or  more  imperative. 

The  history  of  the  days  behind  us  is  not  without 
.shame.  It  is  for  us  to  retrieve,  by  God's  grace,  before 
it  is  too  late,  the  things  that  have  been  lacking.  A 
whole  society  is  remaking  itself.  The  life  of  an  entire 
people  is  shifting  and  resetting  its  assumptions,  its 
habits,  its  landmarks.  We  cannot  stand  outside :  we 
may  not  shrink  from  touching  the  large  issues  of  social 


The  Sword  of  St.  Michael.  269 


order.  It  is  our  duty,  as  it  is  no  one  else's,  to 
assert  the  widening  of  the  range  of  righteousness — 
the  advance  of  sweet  and  coinfortahle  light ;  to  de- 
nounce and  condemn  unsparingly  the  cynical  idleness 
that  despairs  of  bettering  the  world's  order.  We,  who 
have  before  our  eyes  the  vision  of  a  new  heaven  and  a 
new  earth,  may  never  pronounce  the  old  sufficient — 
may  never  be  contented  with  a  partial  equity — may 
never  rest  satisfied  while  one  soul  languishes  in  un- 
worthy fetters,  while  one  heart  withers  under  beclouded 
and  unseemly  .skies. 

0  my  God — God  of  the  spirits  of  all  flesh — pom- 
down  upon  us,  together  with  the  holiness  of  priests, 
the  power  and  inspiration  of  prophets !  Alas  !  we 
have  lost  our  heart  of  grace  !  we  have  sinned  away 
our  life  of  hope  !  We  have  not  dared  to  clamour  for 
the  entire  removal  out  of  the  earth  of  evil,  and  misery, 
and  wrong.  We  have  not,  with  our  whole  souls, 
believed  in  the  war  by  which  Michael  and  his  angels 
cast  utterly  out  of  heaven  that  old  serpent,  the  Devil. 

Oh  remember  not,  we  beseech  Thee,  our  old  sins ! 
But  send  down  Thy  Holy  Spirit  to  fill  us  more  full 
with  the  Spirit  of  Him  Whose  eyes  are  as  a  flame  of 
fire,  and  on  His  head  are  many  crowns,  and  out  of  His 
mouth  a  sharp  sword  goeth — of  Him  Who  in  righteous- 
ness doth  judge  and  make  war,  and  Whose  Name  is 
faithful  and  true:  the  Word  of  God,  King  of  kings 
and  Lord  of  lords  ! 

Enlighten  our  eyes,  that  we  may  see  the  sins  that 
encompass  our  days.  Inflame  our  courage,  that  we  may 
without  fear  denounce  what  Thy  light  ha-:  made  mani- 


270 


The  Sword  of  St.  Michael. 


fest.  Draw  us  out  of  the  easy  paths  of  acquiescence — 
out  of  the  chill  shadows  of  distrust.  Compel  us  to 
speak  and  act  with  a  larger  mind  and  a  loftier  purpose, 
that  we  may  boldly  rebuke  vice  and  patiently  suffer 
for  Thy  truth's  sake,  and  so  prepare  a  people  for  Thy 
coming,  0  dear  Lord,  Who  tarriest  long,  but  to  Whom 
the  Spirit  and  the  Bride  must  for  ever  say,  Come  !  and 
let  him  that  thirsteth  say,  Come !  Even  so,  come, 
Lord  Jesus. 


SERMON  XVIII. 


THE  KINGDOM  OF  RIGHTEOUSNESS. 

"  Src  gour  minos  set  nnon  righteousness,  <©  pe  congregation :  ano  60 
gc  juogc  tlje  tljing  tljat  is  vtgljt,  ©  gc  sons  of  men." — Ps.  lviii.  1. 

We  have  learned  much,  in  our  day,  of  all  that  world  of 
spiritual  interests,  which  lies,  secreted,  within  and  behind 
the  veil  of  outward  things. 

Behind  that  busy  turmoil  of  superficial  life  which 
meets  the  eye,  behind  its  loud  noises,  and  its  fair  show, 
behind  its  vulgar  commonplaces,  there  move,  and  stir — 
(we  know  once  more  by  a  thousand  vivid  proofs,  by 
voices  within  and  without) — strong  and  momentous 
forces,  powers,  and  passions,  and  desires.  These  are 
awake  once  more  :  we  see  men  and  women  impelled, 
and  swayed,  and  mastered  by  these  invisible  influences: 
we  ourselves  know,  thanks  to  God,  something  of  this 
spiritual  stress. 

It  is  a  religious  revival.  We  have  become  alive  to 
unseen  movements :  we  are  sensitive  to  the  touch 
of  religious  emotions :  the  deep  pathos  of  human  life 
affects  us,  as  it  never  affected  our  fathers  :  its  cravings, 
its  intentions,  its  possibilities,  its  infinities,  its  mysteries, 
its  despairs — all  these  have  become  familiar,  and  in 
telligible  :  and  so  fast  as  these  are  felt  and  understood 


272        The  Kingdom  of  Righteousness. 


we  have  moved  out  of  the  land  of  sight  into  the  land  of 
faith.  We  know  now  the  harrenness  of  the  present, 
and  the  tangible :  we  have  passed  under  the  pressure  of 
the  Unseen,  and  the  Eternal :  and  so  there  has  sprung 
up  out  of  the  ground  of  passion,  watered  by  tearful 
sorrows,  the  flower  of  Spiritual  Faith, — Faith,  which 
is  the  discovery  of  the  inner  powers  of  Spirit, — Faith, 
which  is  the  act  with  which  the  Spirit,  in  the  joy  of 
that  self-discovery,  severs  itself  from  all  that  is  without, 
frees  itself,  detaches  itself,  and  enters  on  its  own  life, 
holding  its  life  within  itself.  In  Faith,  the  Spirit  comes 
In  itself;  it  holds  revealed  within  itself,  within  that 
world  which  is  its  own,  a  new  order  of  being,  a  new 
region  of  emotion,  of  which  it  enters  into  possession, — a 
region  withdrawn  from  all  the  rough  handling  of  the 
flesh,  beyond  the  touch  of  worldly  weapons, — a  region 
unearthly,  unseen,  that  fadeth  not  away,  within  which  a 
great  drama  is  everlastingly  enacted ;  a  drama,  crowded 
with  incident,  rich  with  passionate  hopes  and  fears, 
awful  in  its  issues ;  a  drama  which  no  eye  sees,  nor  ear 
hears,  yet  a  drama,  real,  incessant,  exciting,  absorbing, 
the  Drama  of  Spiritual  Salvation. 

This  drama  has  once  more  in  our  generation  been 
lcit  in  all  its  thrilling  intensity ;  and  hence,  there  has 
been  in  our  midst  this  wonderful  revival  of  worship. 
Following  with  our  hearts  that  momentous  action,  by 
which  the  world  is  lost  and  saved,  we  have  known  once 
more  the  strange  motions  of  spirit,  which  to  the  outside 
eye  seem  so  extravagant,  so  fanciful, — the  rapture  of 
praise,  the  absorption  of  prayer,  the  joys  of  contempla- 
tion, the  outpour  of  song,  the  living  flame  of  adoration, 


The  Kingdom  of  Righteousness.  273 


the  prostration  of  penitence.  This  we  have,  known; 
and,  with  it,  came  the  inevitable  sense  of  communion, 
of  a  common  effort,  and  a  common  interest,  of  united 
participation  in  a  single  action,  the  redemption  of  all  in 
the  one  Lord.  The  spiritual  life  is  no  lonely,  isolated 
thing,  no  solitary  possession,  but  a  citizenship  in  a 
spiritual  country:  we  are  admitted  members  of  an 
immense  company,  of  a  new  race,  of  a  single  body : 
and  our  worship,  therefore,  which  should  give  spiritual 
expression  to  the  new  conditions  into  which  we  had 
entered,  must  be  united,  must  be  the  action  of  the 
entire  body. 

So  it  was,  through  the  needs  of  common  worship,  that 
we  rediscovered  and  revived  the  reality  of  the  Catholic 
Church  :  and  this  Church,  again,  as  the  home  of  spiritual 
aspiration,  and  of  the  free  spontaneity  of  faith,  must 
have  that  detachment  from  earthly  things,  that  freedom, 
that  inner  self-possession,  which  is  the  peculiar  gift  of 
faith.  By  faith,  spirit  shows  its  self-mastery,  its  self- 
completeness,  its  independence  of  local  tie,  or  circum- 
stance, or  external  accident:  and  the  Holy  Church, 
built  without  hands,  the  spiritual  home  that  faith 
inhabits,  must,  so  we  have  slowly  learned,  be  also  self- 
Complete,  self-mastered,  with  a  life,  and  substance,  and 
reality  of  its  own,  independent  of  circumstance,  capable 
of  free  detachment  from  all  temporal  and  earthly  con- 
ditions. 

We  praise  God  for  all  we  have  gained. 
But  let  me  ask  you  whether  we  have  not  yet  to  make 
another  step. 

The  spirit  comes  to  itself  in  faith ;  but  does  it  keep 


274        The  Kingdom  of  Righteousness. 


to  itself?  Is  it  of  the  nature  of  spirit  to  remain  de- 
tached and  withdrawn,  severed  from  earthly  circum- 
stance, self-possessed,  and  self-contented  ?  Does  it 
abandon  to  its  own  ways  and  works  that  outer  world, 
from  the  bonds  and  cravings  of  which  it  has  joyfully 
severed  itself? 

Nay !  Spirit  is  always,  by  the  very  essence  of  its 
being,  an  activity,  a  movement,  a  quickening  power. 
It  cannot  exist  at  all  without  issuing  in  act,  in  motion ; 
wherever  it  is,  it  is  felt  abroad  as  a  wind,  strong  and 
masterful,  under  the  pressure  of  which  we  see  the  reeds 
shake,  and  the  trees  bend  and  bow,  and  the  waters  curl 
and  roll :  it  is  felt,  sudden  and  alive,  like  a  flame,  under 
the  touch  of  which  things  stir,  and  change,  and  melt, 
and  kindle,  and  start,  and  quiver,  and  shine.  Spirit  is 
a  power ;  and  in  coming  to  itself,  it  has  discovered  the 
secret  of  its  power :  in  finding  itself,  it  has  gained  an 
increase  of  force :  in  freeing  itself  from  the  rule  and 
limit  of  outward  things,  it  has  won  to  itself  new 
activities,  new  capacities,  new  domination.  It  is  more 
alive  than  before ;  and  it  makes  manifest  its  increase  of 
life  by  the  power  which  goes  out  from  it ;  the  power  of 
the  wind,  and  of  the  fire. 

Spirit  never  lives  shut  up  within  its  own  secret 
pleasure  house,  nursing  its  o  wn  musings.  It  is  always 
a  force :  if  it  fails  to  find  scope  for  action,  it  loses 
strength,  it  wanes.  Spiritual  emotion  cannot  sustain 
itself,  unless  it  become  more  than  an  emotion;  for 
spirit  holds  within  it  the  power  to  will,  its  life  lies  in 
the  free  ex'rcise  of  will;  and  a  will  must  act,  or  die. 
And  spirit,  too,  is  love ;  and  love  must  ever  be  seeking 


The  Kingdom  of  Righteousness.  275 


occasion  to  show  itself,  to  pour  out  its  gifts,  to  put  itself 
to  use,  to  cany  help:  kept  to  itself,  then,  unused  and 
ineffective,  the  love,  that  is  the  heart  of  spirit,  withers, 
and  faints. 

A  revival  of  spiritual  emotion,  then,  must  of  necessity 
involve  a  revival  of  spiritual  activity.  The  spirit  that 
is  sought  and  won  in  the  hidden  chamher  must  make 
itself  manifest  on  the  housetops.  The  spiritual  secret 
that  is  whispered  in  darkness  must  inevitably  utter  its 
cry  in  the  broad  daylight,  must  make  itself  heard  in  the 
crowded  streets. 

This  is  the  law  of  its  life;  to  win  its  power  from  the 
Father  Which  seeth  in  secret,  but  to  exhibit  that  power 
in  victorious  sovereignty  over  this  earth,  that  our  eyes 
see,  and  our  hands  handle. 

If  spirit  is  present  in  our  midst,  then  virtue  must  go 
out  from  it ;  the  thrill  of  its  presence  cannot  be  re- 
strained ;  it  will  make  itself  felt  out  and  beyond  the 
very  skirts  of  its  clothing  in  sudden  motions,  in  mar- 
vellous efficacies,  in  electric  touches,  in  healing  breaths. 
This  poor  earth  of  ours,  bound  over  in  bondage  to  Satan, 
worn  and  weary  with  ancient  evils  and  the  burden  of 
intolerable  wrongs,  has  but  to  draw  near  to  this  new 
power,  and  lay  its  finger  on  the  hem  of  the  garment, 
and  lo !  the  change  has  passed  over  it,  the  mystery  of 
iniquity  is  loosed :  it  knows  within  itself  that  it  has 
been  made  whole ! 

If  it  be  true,  then,  that  no  revival  of  spiritual  life 
can  be  real  and  enduring  from  which  virtue  does  not 
go  out,  to  better  the  world's  estate,  to  unloose  its  sins, 
to  banish  its  sadness;  and  if,  as  we  discovered  in  the 


276        TJic  Kingdom  of  Righteousness. 


region  of  worship,  spiritual  life  is,  always,  no  isolated, 
individual  matter,  but  a  movement  of  many  souls,  a 
movement  that  knits  men  together,  and  spreads  by 
sympathy,  and  gathers  heart  by  gathering  masses,  and 
works  and  grows  in  companionship ;  and  that  the 
needs  of  perfect  adoration  are  fulfilled  only  in  the 
united  movement  of  the  Catholic  Church,  of  the 
Body  of  Christ :  if  so,  then  must  this  social  character 
belong,  also  and  as  much,  to  the  correspondent  activity 
of  spirit,  of  which  we  now  speak,  this  activity  of  the 
wind  and  of  the  fire,  with  which  spirit  issues  out,  in 
power  to  redeem  and  renew  the  earth.  If  the  Church 
be  necessary  to  the  perfection  of  worship,  then  is  it 
also  necessary  to  the  fulfilment  of  righteousness.  If 
our  spirits  cannot  mount  upward  with  strength,  and 
persistence,  and  courage,  until  they  have  been  embraced 
and  unfolded  by  the  upward  motion  of  a  whole  spiritual 
society,  then  neither  can  they  move  outward  in  acts 
of  truth,  and  purity,  and  love,  unless  that  same  society 
be  about  them  and  around  them,  to  sustain  and  encour- 
age, to  nourish,  and  enlarge,  and  enlighten. 

My  brethren,  Christ  our  Lord,  as  He  stood  upon  our 
earth,  found  Himself  in  face  of  no  casual  and  isolated 
fragments  of  evil.  What  He  saw  and  met  was  a  vast, 
and  ancient,  and  weighty  dominion,  huge  with  gathered 
stores  of  sin,  stroug  with  interlacing  bonds,  knit  tight 
and  last  by  link  upon  link,  by  tie  of  blood,  by  touches  of 
hideous  sympathy,  by  dire  kinship,  and  hateful  affinity — 
welded  and  soldered  by  the  strokes  of  heavy  centuries 
into  a  single,  solid,  compact,  and  enduring  mass — the 
kingdom  of  evil,  moving  in  steady  persistence  under 


The  Kingdom  of  Righteousness.  277 


captaincies,  and  principalities,  and  powers:  and  what 
lie  strove,  even  unto  blood,  to  raise  up  over  against  it, 
was  a  massive  movement  of  concentrated  energies,  all 
working  together,  with  one  heart  and  one  spirit,  one 
law,  one  hope,  one  baptism,  pledged  one  and  all  to 
loyal  companionship,  bound  up  into  the  powerful  unity 
of  a  single  organic  frame,  a  body  of  faithful  men  set 
upon  fulfilling  righteousness,  a  society  for  well-doing, 
a  Holy  Church,  whose  very  breath,  and  life,  and  being 
should  be  instinct  with  goodness,  and  temperance,  and 
kindness,  and  purity,  and  love — a  kingdom  of  God, 
offering  to  sin  a  counter-force  as  united  as  its  own,  as 
multitudinous,  as  entire — a  kingdom  of  God  which 
should  not  struggle,  and  sink,  and  struggle  again  in  rare 
and  solitary  efforts  of  moral  heroism,  at  loose  intervals, 
in  disappointing  disorder :  nay !  but  a  dominion  that 
should  stand,  and  not  fail — should  grow,  and  increase, 
and  gather  force — should  withstand  the  shock  of  dis- 
aster, the  battering  of  the  hostile  years,  the  fall  of  kings, 
the  uncertain  shiftings  of  the  peoples — should  slowly  and 
painfully  raise  its  fabric  of  holy  living,  line  by  line, 
and  stone  by  stone, — a  dominion  with  the  strength  of 
the  everlasting  hills,  a  kingdom  that  should  have  no 
end,  against  which  the  gates  of  hell,  with  all  their 
ordered  and  marshalled  hosts,  should  never  prevail. 

So  lie  planned:  and  where  but  in  this  Divine  plan 
do  we  iind  the  secret  of  that  victorious  joy,  that  burned 
like  fire  within  the  heart  of  the  early  Church  ?  What 
was  the  blessed  change  that  then  came  over  men  ?  Was 
it  that  there  Had  never  been,  before  Christ,  any  heroic 
striving  alter   righteousness,   any  superb   hatred  of 


278        The  Kingdom  of  Righteousness. 


wrong?  Nay,  there  had  been  much,  much  most  high 
and  fair.  But  each  effort  bad  been  as  the  unavailing 
battling  of  some  breathless  swimmer  against  the  loud 
inrush  of  the  buffeting  waves.  He  may  struggle,  but 
he  must  sink  at  last,  and  he  knows  it !  Alone  and 
desperate,  this  and  that  noble  soul  strove  to  retain  some 
white  purity  of  heart,  some  sweet  touch  of  gentle 
peace ;  but  higher  and  higher  the  great  floods  rose,  the 
floods  of  foul  imaginations  ;  fiercer  beat  and  roared  the 
storm  of  malice,  and  cruelty,  and  all  uncharitableness. 
The  entire  set  of  the  world  was  against  him.  It  was 
rushing  down  into  ruin :  no  strong  hand  or  wary  foot 
could  stay  the  headlong  fall.  So  such  men  had  felt, 
and  fainted,  and  fallen :  and  lo !  now,  not  in  pitiful 
loneliness,  but  in  inspiring  unity  of  hope,  a  whole 
brotherhood  are  about  them,  pledged  to  pure  living, 
pledged  to  undo  wrong;  an  entire  society  surrounds 
them,  with  the  warmth,  and  glow,  and  fervour  of  a 
crowd,  all  swayed  by  the  one  high  motive,  all  moving, 
hand  in  hand,  towards  one  aim,  all  thrilled  by  one 
expectation,  the  enthusiasm  for  right. 

The  Greek  philosopher,  who  set  himself  to  hold  his 
own  soul  in  purity  and  peace  at  any  cost,  felt  himself 
to  be  (so  he  tells  us)  as  one  who,  in  a  wild  tempest  of 
sleet  and  hail,  crouches  behind  a  wall,  content  if  he 
may  but  keep  himself,  at  least,  dry  while  the  storm 
swept  by.  So  it  had  been :  but  these  Christians  crouch 
no  longer :  out  from  behind  their  sheltering  walls  they 
come  to  find  themselves,  boldly  and  in  broad  day, 
dreaming  of  new  possibilities  altogether, — of  whole 
multitudes  knit  into  the  endeavour  after  good,  into  the 


The  Kingdom  of  Righteousness.        z  79 


Body  of  Christ;  of  a  society  in  which  holiness  should 
be  the  law,  and  purity  the  possession ;  of  a  society 
which  should  begin  to  make  manifest,  even  now  among 
men,  the  blessed  peace  of  that  new  heaven  and  new 
earth,  wherein  dwelleth  righteousness.1 

My  brethren,  is  this  so  ?  What  have  we  done  wit  h 
this  splendid  hope?  We  have  learned  something  of 
the  power  of  united  worship  :  but  what  have  we  used 
of  this  power  of  united  well-doing  ?  The  Church  can- 
not, indeed,  stand  out  from  the  Christianized  civilization, 
in  the  vivid  contrast  with  which,  in  those  early  days,  it 
rose  up  from  out  of  a  dark  Pagan  society.  But  we 
still  must  most  anxiously  ask,  how  far  does  it  gather 
into  itself,  and  concentrate  into  a  single  effort,  the 
movements  that,  in  our  day,  make  for  righteousness, 
the  movements  that  make  against  wrong  ? 

How  far  does  it  make  itself  felt,  as  a  body  of  constant 
well-doing  and  pure  living,  throwing  itself,  with  the 
weight  and  momentum  of  a  solid  and  single  mass,  into 
the  cause  of  justice,  and  mercy,  and  uprightness? 

How  far  does  it  devote  its  splendid  heritage  of  tradi- 
tion, and  position,  and  wealth,  to  the  loosening  of  iniqui- 
tous bonds,  to  the  lifting  of  burdens,  to  the  bettering  of 
the  crushed,  and  the  outcast,  and  the  forsaken  ? 

And  to  bring  the  question  nearer  home  to  each  sepa- 
rate soul,  let  us  seriously  ask  ourselves,  one  and  all : 

Are  we  at  all  sure  to  find  that,  as  we  pass  from  out 
of  the  talk  and  company  of  the  ordinary  world  into 
the  society  of  Churchmen,  we  have  changed  at  all,  for 
the  better,  the  moral  atmosphere  that  we  breathe  ? 

1  Cf.  Church  Gifts  of  Civilization,  pp.  147-207. 


280       The  Kingdom  oj  Righteousness. 


Are  we  sensible,  always,  that  we  have  stepped  across 
a  line,  inside  which  there  is  a  sweeter  air,  and  cleaner 
ways,  touches  of  a  higher  peace  and  of  a  fairer  tender- 
ness— touches  that  soothe  our  feverish  hearts,  and 
smoothe  down  our  ruffled  petulance,  and  cheer  our 
troubled  gloom,  and  scatter  our  beclouded  tempers? 
Do  we  find  a  better,  brighter  life  about  us  ? 

I  would  not  have  us  forget,  indeed,  the  examples  of 
helpful  and  devoted  work,  that  each  of  us  can,  praise  be 
to  God  !  easily  recall ;  but  how  personal,  how  lonely,  how 
separate,  how  fragmentary  have  they  been  !  Each  man 
has  been  left  to  struggle,  as  he  may,  almost  as  heavily 
over-matched  as  if  he  were  back  in  some  huge  old-world 
civilization. 

And  those  larger  movements  and  agitations  that 
have  set  themselves  to  remove  injustice,  or  clear  a  new 
space  free  from  base  encumbrances,  for  goodness,  and 
fair  living — the  very  movements,  which  a  National 
Church  exists  to  inaugurate,  and  make  possible — 
well !  how  perilously  have  we  left  them  to  others  to 
achieve ;  others  who,  as  often  as  not,  owe  no  conscious 
loyalty  to  Hiin  Who  died  to  found,  in  His  Blood,  a 
kingdom  of  uprightness ;  died  to  loose  the  prisoners 
out  of  captivity,  to  give  sight  to  the  blind,  and  speech 
to  the  dumb,  and  life  to  the  dead,  to  bring  in  the  great 
and  acceptable  year. 

As  we  speak  with  devout  Church-men  or  women, 
does  the  higher  man  in  us,  that  is  stifled  and  choked 
by  the  dusty  turmoil  of  the  world, — does  it  wake  up, 
as  if  by  magic  ?  does  it  bestir  itself  to  nobler  dreams  ? 
does  it  recall  its  best  hours  of  enkindling  aspiration  ? 


The  Kingdom  of  RigJitcousncss.        28 1 


Does  it  freshen,  and  brighten,  .is  the  sea  under  breeze 
and  sun  ?  Is  it  natural  to  us,  in  their  presence,  under 
their  eyes,  to  speak  of  righteousness,  to  denounce  the 
cruelty  of  evil-doings,  to  scheme  for  justice  to  the 
injured,  and  for  comfort  to  the  suffering  ?  Is  it  easier, 
with  them  than  with  others,  to  pour  out  our  compassion 
for  the  weary  and  heavy-laden  ?  Easier  to  believe  that 
the  poor  shall  not  always  be  forsaken,  that  the  patient 
abiding  of  the  meek  shall  not  perish  for  ever?  Easier 
to  believe  that  man  shall  not  always  have  the  upper 
hand,  that  verily  there  is  a  God  that  judgeth  the  earth  ? 
Are  we,  when  with  them,  as  in  a  home  of  hallowed 
grace,  secure  of  sympathy  with  all  high  appeals,  all 
splendid  endeavours, — the  quick,  eager  sympathy,  that 
is  sure  to  flow  out  of  the  hearts  of  those  who  hunger 
and  thirst  after  the  kingdom  of  righteousness  ? 

Ah  !  surely,  these  questions  are  searching,  are 
humbling  !  How  little  security  have  we  that  those  who 
have  knelt  praying  together  with  us  in  the  Church  of 
God,  will  not,  in  deed  and  speech,  outside  the  church  door, 
take  upon  them  the  lower  tone  of  cynical  indifference 
to  public  wrong,  will  not  give  the  pitiful  shrug  of  easy 
disbelief ;  when  possibilities  of  fairer  days  are  opening 
upon  the  tired  earth,  will  not  drop  from  their  lips  the 
light  scoff,  the  sharp  sneer,  at  those  who  dream  of  a 
purer  justice,  of  a  larger  freedom, — dream  of  undoing 
oppression,  and  of  curbing  sin  ! 

And  is  it  only  of  others  that  we  have  to  sorrowfully 
complain  ?  Alas !  why,  then,  are  we,  each  of  us,  so 
pitifully  conscious  of  cramped  enthusiasms,  of  half- 
hearted beliefs  ?    How  little  of  prophetic  fury  is  there 


282        The  Kingdom  of  Righteousness. 


about  us  !  How  passive,  how  indifferent,  how  unstirred 
we  remain,  while  huge  sins  walk  abroad,  and  the  earth 
is  full  of  cruel  habitation !  What  evils  are  there  that 
shrink  before  our  indignation  ?  What  wrongs  are  there 
that  dread  our  loud  outcry?  What  low  and  base 
ambitions  are  there  that  creep  off  abashed  when  we  are 
near  ?  What  worldly  man  feels  uncomfortable  in  our 
presence  ?  Why  is  it,  that  no  rebuke,  no  repugnance, 
goes  out  from  our  very  being  against  iniquity  ?  Why 
do  sins  flourish  so  close  to  us,  without  fear,  and  without 
scruple  ?  Something  is  wrong.  We  pray,  we  know 
spiritual  hopes  and  joys :  we  are  far  more  alive  than 
many  men  about  us  to  religious  emotions  and  religious 
inspirations.  Why  is  it,  then,  that  we  are  not  equally  con- 
scious of  a  purer  moral  tone  than  they,  of  a  more  delicate 
sense  of  right,  of  a  nobler,  and  more  victorious  wrath  ? 

My  brethren :  such  questions,  however  humiliating, 
are  profitless,  unless  we  can  win  some  answer  to  them. 
I  can  but  attempt  one  slight  answer  to-night. 

Our  individual  weakness  is,  surely,  due  to  our  isola- 
tion. We  do  not  hold  our  moral  life  as  a  debt  due  to 
the  Church  ;  we  do  not  work  righteousness  as  members 
of  a  corporation,  of  a  body  pledged  to  holy  living. 
Alone,  and  fearing  the  terrific  odds  that  are  against  us, 
no  wonder  that  we  faint,  and  quail. 

But  if  there  were  about  us  a  large  and  rushing 
movement  towards  God — the  pressure  of  multitudes, 
the  fervour  of  a  crowd :  if  there  stood  about  us  a  fair 
brotherhood,  bound  to  this  high  chivalry,  warring 
for  the  right, — ah  !  then  there  would  be  nothing  we 
could  not  hope  to  achieve  ! 


The  Kingdom  of  Righteousness.  283 


"Why,  then,  is  there  so  little  of  such  movement? 

Because  each  straggler  strives  alone,  unconscious  of 
his  responsibilities,  of  the  call  that  is*ou  him  to  bear 
his  share  in  creating  such  a  mighty  moving  of  the 
waters. 

Dear  people,  in  working  out  salvation  we  are  working 
for  others :  for  we  are  members  of  a  body — which 
suffers  or  gains  as  a  whole,  according  as  each  member 
loses  or  sins. 

All  these  our  brothers,  each  in  his  lonely  strife 
against  sin  and  wrong,  look  for  our  support,  look  for 
encouragement  from  our  companionship  :  and,  when  we 
fall,  when  we  yield  to  the  seductive  influences  oK  lust, 
or  vanity,  or  sloth,  or  moral  doubt,  we  not  only  outrage 
God's  honour,  not  only  defile  the  temple  of  the  Holy 
One,  but,  also,  we  fail  our  brother  in  his  need ;  we  sin 
against  the  Body  of  Christ;  we  lower  its  tone,  we 
degrade  its  office,  we  decrease  its  efficiency  for  good ; 
we  obstruct  its  life.  Each  sinner  about  or  near  us 
misses  from  us,  who  have  so  sadly  betrayed  our  trust,  the 
rebuke  that  might  have  stirred,  and  saved  :  each  penitent 
struggles,  through  our  sin,  under  a  blinder  weight,  under 
a  direr  burden  of  evil :  each  saint  who  thirsted  for 
sympathy  in  his  agony,  fights  a  harder  battle,  suffers  from 
more  grievous  infirmities,  because  we  have  brought  him 
no  help,  because  our  lives  carry  with  them  no  power  of 
inspiration,  no  fire  of  love. 

We  owe  it  to  them,  we  owe  it  to  all,  that  our  minds 
should  be  set  on  righteousness. 

Remember  it !  remember  that  it  is  for  others,  that 
we  wrestle  and  pray  !    Remember  it,  when  the  dark 


284        The  Kingdom  of  Righteousness. 


hours  hide  us  from  all  eyes !  when  loneliness  at  once 
weakens  the  will,  and  empowers  the  temptation  !  Alone 
we  fight !  Yes !  hut  others  will  feel,  and  know,  the 
issue  of  that  conflict ! 

Others,  toiling,  striving,  suffering  as  we,  will  catch 
from  us  in  the  day  to  come,  some  touch  of  tender, 
helpful  comfort,  if  now,  in  the  hour  of  trial,  we  hold 
fast  to  God  and  to  holiness. 

Others — if  we  loose  our  grasp  on  purity  and  goodness 
now — others  will  look  to  us  from  out  of  their  sad 
bitterness  of  soul,  from  out  of  their  broken  endeavours 
— and  will  look  in  vain  !  No  virtue  will  go  out  from 
us!  No  fountain  of  living  water  will  spring  up  to 
refresh  their  hot  lips  !  The  hem  of  our  garment  will 
bring  with  it  no  blessing,  no  power  to  heal  and  save ! 

We  fight  not  for  ourselves  alone.  These  are  they — 
our  brethren — the  cloud  wherewith  we  walk  encom- 
passed :  it  is  for  them  that  we  wrestle  through  the  long 
night  :  they  count  on  the  strength  that  we  might  bring 
them,  if  we  so  wrestle  that  we  prevail.  The  morning 
that  follows  the  night  of  our  lonely  trial  would,  if  we 
be  faithful,  find  us  new  men,  with  a  new  name  of  help, 
and  of  promise,  and  of  comfort,  in  the  memory  of  which 
others  would  endure  bravely,  and  fight  as  we  had 
fought. 

Oh,  turn  to  God  in  fear,  lest,  through  hidden  dis- 
loyalty, we  have  not  a  cup  of  cold  water  to  give  those 
who  turn  w  us  ior  succour  in  tneir  so-'e  need  ! 


SERMON  XIX. 


THE  PRUNING  OF  THE  VINE. 

"  E  am  tl;r  true  Finr,  anti  ftlcj  iFatfjet  is  tbr  fthtsbanbrnan :  rbrvy 
branch,  in  f&i  that  bnrrth  not  fvuit  |i>c  taftetfj  afoay,  nnb  rrjrvu  brand) 
tljat  btarrtfj  fruit,  lijr  jnirgrth  it  tljat  it  mag  bring  forth  move  fruit." — 
St.  John  xv.  1-2. 

Our  Lord  has  many  offices,  and  gives  Himself  many 
names.  He  is  the  supreme  Lawgiver,  the  unique 
authority ;  and,  as  such,  He  names  Himself  the  Door, 
the  narrow,  but  one  and  universal  Passage,  by  Whom 
all  must  enter  who  would  come  into  the  peace  of  secure 
allegiance  to  God. 

He  is  the  King;  and,  as  such,  He  names  Himself 
the  Good  Shepherd,  Who  shepherds  His  flock  with 
undoubted  devotion,  and  is  followed  hither  and  thither 
with  unwavering  loyalty  by  the  happy  sheep  who  are 
known  of  Him  by  name,  to  the  pastures  of  delightful 
tranquillity,  and  by  the  ever-flowing  waters  of  ceaseless 
content. 

He  is  the  Saviour,  the  Deliverer ;  and  so  names 
Himself  the  great  Physician,  Who  will  heal  the  broken- 
hearted, and  bring  health  to  them  that  are  sick  and  at 
the  point  to  die :  yea,  even  though  they  were  dead,  yet 
shall  they  live,  for  verily,  He  is  the  Resurrection,  and 
the  Life,  Whose  voice  the  very  dead  shall  hear,  and 
they  that  hear  shall  live  for  evermore. 


286  The  Pruning  of  the  Vine. 


He  is  the  Bevealer,  the  Truth  ;  and  so  names  Him- 
self the  Light,  in  Whom  men  recognise  the  reality  of  all 
their  works,  and  of  all  their  high  imaginings,  and  of 
all  their  longing  aspirations,  and  to  Whose  blessed 
Light  they  press  forward  that  their  deeds  may  be  made 
manifest  that  they  have  been  wrought  in  God. 

He  is  the  Son  of  Man,  Whom  God  has  sealed  to  be 
His  one  and  only  Minister,  His  sole  Servant ;  and  so 
pronounces  Himself  to  be  to  all  humanity  the  very 
Bread  of  Life,  the  Flesh  and  the  Blood,  by  sharing  in 
Which  mankind  lays  hold  of  eternal  sustenance,  and 
will  be  raised  again,  body  and  soul,  complete  and  trans- 
figured, at  the  Tremendous  Day. 

All  this  He  is,  and  much  more ;  and,  under  every 
figure,  we  seize  some  glimpse  of  our  many-sided  re- 
lationship to  our  Master  and  Lord,  and  we  bless  Him 
that  gave,  and  we  rejoice  in  what  we  receive. 

But  now,  when  the  last  hours  of  the  Lord's  life  are 
hurrying  to  their  close,  and  the  tenderest,  nearest 
familiarity  of  the  last  sweet  converse  between  the 
.Master  and  those  whom  He  now  deigns  to  call  His 
friends,  is  attained : 

Now,  when  all  evil  has  been  sifted,  and  purged,  and 
cleansed,  and  he  who  received  the  sop  has  gone  out  into 
the  night,  and  they  who  remain  have  been  washed 
and  sanctified  every  whit : 

Now,  when  the  Lord's  heart  pours  out  its  most  im- 
passioned utterance,  its  most  secret  love,  over  the  souls 
of  those  with  whom  He  sits  as  He  shall  sit  no  more  for 
ever,  in  the  pure  intimacy  of  human-kindness : 

Now,  at  the  close  of  that  memorial  hour,  that  un- 


The  Pruning  of  the  Vine. 


287 


forgotten  feast,  into  which  our  Lord  pressed  all  the 
fulness  and  the  wonder  of  the  crowning  memories 
which  would  hereafter  fix  and  hold  the  prevailing  and 
imperishable  remembrance  of  Him  among  men  until 
His  coming  again  : 

Now,  as  He  stands  amid  His  chosen,  His  beloved,  His 
own,  with,  it  may  be,  the  very  cup  in  His  hands,  which 
but  now  He  had  blessed,  and  uplifted,  and  enriched  with 
the  Promise  of  that  atoning  Blood  which  He  was  to 
carry  for  ever  from  henceforth  into  the  Holiest  of  Holies, 
before  the  Eyes  of  the  Most  High  : 

Now,  He  Who  is,  to  the  Church  of  His  love,  the  Lord 
of  all  her  innermost  life,  has  one  figure  more  in  which 
to  embody  that  hidden,  unceasing,  continuous  intimacy 
of  union  which  would,  for  ever  and  ever,  draw  faster 
and  closer  to  Himself  the  souls  of  those  who  had 
passed,  by  the  power  of  His  great  Sacrifice,  within 
the  secret  place  of  His  love ;  within  the  circle  of  His 
Church's  perfecting  grace ;  within  that  upper  chamber 
in  which  for  ever  the  Lord  Jesus  comes,  and  moves, 
and  shows  Himself,  and  sits  at  meat,  and  passes  in 
and  out,  and  breathes  perpetual  blessing,  and  shows 
His  hands  and  His  side,  and  takes  the  cup,  and  gives 
thanks,  and  gives  to  them  whom  He  has  sanctified, 
and  is  known  in  the  breaking  of  bread. 

This  is  the  familiar  intimacy  which  He  is  now  sealing 
by  His  last  parting  words,  and  out  of  the  midst  of  which 
He  speaks  the  parable  of  its  mysterious  laws,  "  I  am  the 
Vine,  the  very  and  only  Vine,  and  My  Father  is  the 
Husbandman.  I  am  the  Vine,  and  ye  are  the  branches. 
Abide  in  Me,  for  without  Me  ye  can  do  nothing." 


2  88 


The  Pruning  of  the  Vine. 


"  Abide  in  Me." 

When  our  Lord  is  describing  the  first  activity  of 
Faith  in  Him.  He  has  another  metaphor.  "  Come  unto 
Me."  "  He  that  cometh  unto  Me  shall  have  everlasting 
life." 

Faith  begins,  for  man,  in  an  act  of  approach.  It  is 
true  such  a  coming  can  only  be  by  virtue  of  God's  pre- 
venient  action  :  all  those  who  come  are  already  given  of 
God  ;  it  is  the  power  of  that  gift  which  moves  men  to 
come;  no  man  comes,  unless  God  the  Father  draws  him. 
Faith  is  a  gift ;  it  presupposes  an  activity  on  God's  side  : 
but  man  has  still  his  part  to  play ;  he,  too,  is  to  be 
active ;  he,  too,  is  a  living  motive-power ;  he  has,  by 
his  own  exertion,  to  make  that  act  of  approach  which 
God's  precedent  gift  of  his  soul  to  Christ  has  made 
possible.  He  has  still  to  throw  his  own  personal 
energy  into  the  needful  belief :  he  has  to  come,  to  draw 
near,  to  the  life ;  and  such  coming  is  fulfilled  when  the 
soul  has  drawn  so  near  that  it  can  put  out  its  hand  and 
receive  the  very  life  that  it  desires  ;  when  it  can  feed 
on  it,  as  it  can  on  bread  ;  when  it  can  eat  of  the  very 
Flesh,  and  drink  of  the  very  Blood  of  Him  on  Whom  it 
believes.  This  act  of  eatino;  is  the  crown  and  culmina- 
tion  of  the  act  of  approach.  That  activity  of  the  man's 
free-will,  which  was  begun  in  the  energy  by  which  he 
set  himself  in  motion  to  come  to  the  life,  is  continued 
in  the  energy  by  which  he  sets  himself  to  eat  and  to 
drink  of  this  most  marvellous  Food. 

But  the  final  act  by  which  Faith  attains,  the  end  of 
its  approach,  and  is  knit  to  that  to  which  it  was  draw- 
ing near,  and  touches,  and  handles,  and  receives,  and  is 


The  Pruning  of  the  Vine.  289 


made  one  with,  that  which,  hy  its  charm,  draws  the  soul 
towards  it  from  afar — this  act,  however  vital,  and  crucial, 
and  essential,  does  not  close  the  history  of  faith;  man 
cannot  now  fall  back  into  idleness,  or  security,  because 
his  faith  has  at  last  touched  its  goal.  That  goal  is  the 
Living  Personality  of  Christ,  the  Son  of  the  Most  High  : 
it  is  an  eternal  Fount  of  endless  and  infinite  Life.  He 
who  has  so  terminated  his  approach,  finds  himself 
encircled  by  a  power  of  inexhaustible  grace  and 
strength,  in  the  might  of  whose  everlasting  glory  he 
may  for  ever  and  ever  be  quickened  by  undying  fires, 
and  renewed,  and  replenished,  and  reinvigorated  by  the 
ever-new  and  ever-increasing  splendour  of  a  life  that 
can  never  fade,  or  diminish,  or  slacken,  or  fail.  His 
faith,  therefore,  finds  itself  pledged  to  a  new  trial,  to  a 
new  task  :  it  has  succeeded  in  coming ;  will  it  succeed 
in  abiding?  To  abide;  to  cling  and  adhere;  to  sustain 
the  contact ;  to  keep  the  grasp  firm  and  sure ;  to  hold 
fast  through  all  shocks  of  circumstance ;  to  keep  open 
all  the  passages,  that  the  life-influences  may  pass  in  and 
out  freely — I  his  is  now  the  work  of  the  faith  which 
has  once  entered  into  Christ.  The  man  has  passed 
within  the  action  of  his  Lord's  Personality:  he  has 
partaken  of  His  substance :  he  has  been  included  in 
His  Body :  this  is  his  astounding  privilege.  But  still 
he  may  not  rest,  may  not  be  content,  may  not  trust 
to  this  achievement.  He  must  even  yet  put  out  all 
his  force  of  faith  in  order  to  retain  tlie  position  that  he 
lias  won.  He  must  be  himself  in  full  activity,  if  he  is 
to  abide  in  the  Body.  His  faith  must  put  to  use  all 
its  ties  and  bonds  Oi  persistent  devotion,  if  it  is  to  hold 

T 


290  The  Pruning  of  the  Vine. 


its  place.  The-  Twelve  who  listened  on  that  parting 
night  had  indeed  been  made  branches  of  the  perfect 
Vine:  they  had  been  chosen,  and  taken,  and  grafted  in; 
they  were,  even  then,  alive  with  Christ's  life,  instinct 
with  His  grace,  held  fast  in  His  Heart,  made  clean,  and 
sanctified  through  the  Truth ;  and  yet  He  has  still 
to  insist,  with  anxious  and  loving  entreaty,  "  Abide  in 
Me,  as  I  in  you."  "  Abide  !  Let  nothing  slacken  ;  let 
no  effort  fail ;  let  no  energies  run  down.  As  the  brancli 
cannot  bear  fruit  of  itself  except  it  abide  in  the  vine ; 
no  more  can  ye,  except  ye  abide  in  Me."  •'  He  that 
abideth  in  Me,  he  it  is,  and  he  only,  who  will  bring 
forth  fruit."  And  then  the  earnest  beseeching  to  abide 
unfolds  the  two  strong  cords  by  which  their  souls  will 
bind  themselves  to  Him  with  the  irrevocable  strength 
of  the  Eternal  God :  (1)  "  Love,"  the  unfailing  force  that 
knits  two  souls  in  one — this  is  the  band  that  will  never 
break.  Let  their  love  be  living  and  vigorous,  as  the  love 
that  binds  the  Father  to  the  Son,  and  then  they  will 
surely  abide.  "As  the  Father  hath  loved  Me,  so 
have  I  loved  you  :  abide  in  this  My  love."  And  (2)  love 
that  binds,  tends  also  to  assimilate :  it  reproduces  its 
own  likeness :  therefore,  by  loving  Christ,  they  will  be 
like  Him;  they  will  become  fashioned  into  His  resem- 
blance— into  the  similitude  of  His  love ;  they  will  obey 
His  inspiration ;  they  will  keep  His  commandments : 
"  If  ye  keep  My  commandments,  ye  shall  abide  in  My 
love;  yea,  even  as  I  have  kept  the  Father's  command- 
ments, and  abide  in  His  love."  "  Ye  are  My  friends, 
whom  I  love,  and  who  love  Me,  if  ye  do  whatsoever  I 
command  you." 


The  Pruning  of  the  Vine.  29 1 


And  bound  by  these  two  cords  of  love  and  like- 
ness into  an  abiding  unity  with  Christ,  they  will 
retain  a  permanent  and  undiminishing  gladness  of  soul : 
"  These  things  have  I  spoken  unto  you,  that  My  joy — 
the  joy  that  belongs  to  the  unshaken  unity  of  the 
Father  and  the  Son — may  abide  in  you ;  and  that  this 
your  joy  may  be  full." 

And,  in  the  might  of  this  abiding  hold  on  Christ, 
they  shall  have  power  with  God ;  their  prayers  shall 
prevail  before  Him.  "  For  if  ye  abide  in  Me,  and 
My  words  abide  in  you,  ye  shall  ask  what  ye  will, 
and  it  shall  be  done  unto  you." 

And  yet  more :  the  permanence  which  belongs  to 
their  own  fidelity  to  Him  Who  is  their  continual  life, 
will  pass  out  from  them  into  the  very  work  that  they 
will  do  in  its  strength.  Not  only  will  he,  who  abideth, 
bring  forth  much  fruit,  but  the  fruit  itself  will  abide, 
and  not  wither:  for  that  choice  of  Christ,  which,  by 
love  and  righteousness,  they  hold  fast  with  unswerv- 
ing vigour,  has  "  ordained  them  that  they  should  go 
and  bring  forth  fruit,  and  that  their  fruit  should  abide." 

All  this  is  theirs,  if  only  they  abide ;  if  only  their 
faith  continues  to  cling ;  if  only  it  fail  not  to  preserve 
the  life-giving  unity.  But  for  this  they  must  not  bo 
idle :  yea,  for  this  the  power  of  the  Father  must  be 
called  in,  must  be  secured,  so  urgent  is  the  need,  so 
real  the  peril :  and  so  Christ  prays,  in  that  last  great 
prayer  in  the  strength  of  which  His  true  Church  stands 
to  this  hour,  "  0  Holy  Father,  keep" — not  only  bring,  but 
keep — "through  Thine  own  Name  those  whom  Thou  hast 
given  Me,  that  they  may  be  one,  even  as  we  are  one 


292 


Tli  Priming  of  the  Vine. 


While  I  was  with  them,  I  kept  them  in  Thy  Name:" 
"  Those  whom  Thou  gavest  Me  I  have  kept,  and  lost 
none,  but  the  son  of  perdition.  I  pray  Thee  now,  that, 
as  I  once  kept,  so  Thou,  Father,  wouldst  keep  them 
from  the  evil  of  the  world." 

So  anxiously  did  our  Lord  entreat  His  friends  to  hold 
fast  to  the  union  with  Him  to  which  they  had  attained : 
so  earnestly  did  He  call  on  the  Father  to  continue  His 
fostering  care,  to  guard  and  shield  the  gift  that  He  had 
given.  "  Keep  them,  Holy  Father !  keep  them,  that 
they  may  abide  in  Me  ! " 

And  two  pictures  are  given  us,  that  admit  us  still 
further  to  an  insight  into  the  Father's  action  upon 
those  whom  Christ  has  once  chosen. 

They  are  chosen,  and  ordained  to  abide,  in  order  that 
they  may  bring  forth  fruit.  This  is  the  point  to  which, 
above  all,  the  Father  looks.  "  Herein  is  My  Father 
glorified,  that  ye  bear  much  fruit."  The  Father  is  the 
husbandman :  His  wdiole  care,  His  whole  hope,  is  to 
find  fruit.  This  is  the  terror  of  the  Father's  face,  that 
He,  the  Holy,  looks  for  the  holy ;  He,  the  Righteous, 
seeks  fur  worshippers,  those  who  are  such  as  He  is ; 
He,  the  Life- Giver,  looks  for  those  who  can  give  life ! 
Nothing  imperfect,  nothing  sterile  can  abide  before 
Him.  The  whole  energy  of  His  eternal  love  spends 
itself  in  the  tremendous  effort  to  form,  and  retain,  and 
enjoy  the  image  of  itself,  the  likeness  of  its  own  loveli- 
ness. This,  and  this  only,  can  content  it,  can  satisfy  it, 
can  satiate  its  conscious  yearnings.  For  this  He  has 
given  His  Son :  for  this  He  has  planted  His  vine,  and 
digged  His  winepress,  and  built  His  watch-tower :  for  this 


The  Pruning  of  the  Vine.  293 


Ho  laboureth  hitherto,  from  the  foundation  of  the 
world :  He  seeketh  the  fruit ;  the  fruit  of  His  long 
travail ;  the  fruit  of  all  His  husbandry.  Nothing  short 
of  this ! 

And,  therefore,  surely,  it  is  that  Christ  insists  so  per- 
sistently on  His  "  abide  in  Me."  "  Abide ;  for  without 
abiding  ye  will  bring  forth  no  fruit."  It  is  not  enough 
to  be  merely  grafted  in ;  fruit  must  be  found  upon  us, 
or  else  the  Father  will  have  spent  His  labour  in  vain. 
Abide,  then,  abide  in  the  Vine,  for  there  is  much  to 
be  done — much  that  requires  time,  and  patience,  and 
Avaiting.  Fruit  is  long  in  coming  :  it  is  slowly  matured  : 
it  has  many  long  hours  to  pass  before  it  ripen.  Abide, 
then  ;  cling  fast ;  hold  yourself  close ;  keep  on  the  grasp 
of  faith  without  fail,  without  slackening. 

For  there  is  no  exception,  no  escape.  The  Father 
will  one  day  look  for  His  reward :  He  will  seek  for  the 
one  thing  needful;  and  every  branch,  every  single 
branch, that  beareth  not  fruit,  "He  taketh  away!"  That 
is  His  rule,  His  constant,  unvarying  practice :  "  He 
taketh  that  barren  branch  away  ! "  And  what  happens  to 
such  dry  and  broken  fragments  we  know  well,  our  very 
experience  tells  us,  it  is  an  inevitable  fact,  "  Men  gather 
them,  and  cast  them  into  the  fire,  and  they  are  burned." 

Most  terrible,  most  horrible  !  To  have  once  been  in 
the  Vine ;  to  have  been  ingrafted  within  Christ ;  to 
have  had  His  life  working  through  us ;  to  have  been 
knit  up  into  the  unity  of  His  Immortal  Humanity, 
quickened  by  His  Spirit,  fed  with  His  Blood,  upheld 
by  the  power  of  His  living  Body. 

And,  then,  to  have  let  the  How  of  grace  slacken ;  to 


294 


The  Pruning  of  the  Vine. 


have  dropped  our  energies ;  to  have  suffered  our  faith  to 
loosen  its  hold,  to  deaden,  and  sink,  and  fall  hack ;  to 
have  allowed  the  slow  torpor  of  sloth  to  creep  over  us, 
the  feeble  weakness  of  forgetfulness  to  sap  our  strength  ; 
to  have  seen  hope,  and  spring,  and  joy,  and  aspiration 
die  away  out  of  our  hearts,  like  sunlight  out  of  an 
evening  sky,  until  a  coldness,  a  chilling  whisper  has 
crept  round  the  dull  chambers  of  the  soul,  and  has  told 
us  that  warmth  had  finally  fled,  that  the  day  was  over, 
that  night  had  come ;  to  have  ceased  to  strive  ;  to  have 
folded  our  hands ;  to  have  closed  our  eyes ;  to  have 
remembered  no  more  the  inspirations  that  once  sum- 
moned us  to  action ;  to  have  been  content  with  the 
lower  level,  with  the  weaker  effort,  until  effort  itself 
has  become  impossible,  and  each  lower  standard  is 
deserted  for  one  still  poorer,  and  principles  grow  vague, 
and  shifty,  and  indecisive :  to  see  dimly  what  once  we 
saw  clear,  and  feel  feebly  what  once  stirred  us  like  a 
trumpet,  and  hear  no  more  the  voice  of  God  in  the 
Garden,  nor  ever  again  rise  from  our  bed  to  listen  for 
the  far  sounds  of  Christ's  chariot  wheels,  nor  catch  any 
more  the  cry  through  the  night  of  the  Spirit  and  the 
Bride  who  wait  for  the  coming : — this  is  the  incredible 
tiring  !  Yet  this  is  what  may  befall  us  !  Yes ;  we  all 
know  it :  we  all  have  shuddered  to  find  suddenly  within 
us  the  beginning  of  what  would  have  such  an  end  !  This 
is  that  against  which  our  Lord  warned  and  prayed  on 
His  last  night.  This  is  that  fruitlessness  of  which  He 
records  the  terrific  close :  "  If  a  man  abide  not  in  Me, 
he  is  cast  forth  as  a  branch,  and  is  withered ;  and  men 
gather  them,  and  cast  them  into  the  fire,  and  they  are 
burned." 


The  Pruning  of  the  Vine. 


295 


But  it  is  not  on  a  prospect  such  as  this  that  I  would 
fix  your  eyes  this  morning.1  We  are  here  in  hope,  and 
joy,  and  thankful  praise ;  and,  though  it  may  not  he 
without  its  good  purpose  to  remember,  for  one  brief 
moment,  the  terrors  and  the  perils  that  underlie  our 
Christian  gladness,  the  scorpions  and  the  adders,  the 
young  lions  and  the  dragons,  which  we  tread  under 
our  feet  as  we  move  along  the  pathway  of  glory  and 
salvation,  yet  I  would  lead  your  thoughts  quickly  on 
from  this  to  the  nobler  and  more  inspiring  revelation 
that  Christ  makes  to  us  of  the  Father's  action  on  those 
who  are  abiding  in  His  love,  and  doing  Him  good  and 
acceptable  service. 

How  strange,  how  startling  is  the  mystery  !  Just  as 
arrival  at  Christ  our  Goal  was,  after  all,  not  the  crown- 
ing accomplishment,  the  final  close  of  faith's  victory,  but 
was  only  the  beginning  of  a  new,  and  increasing,  and 
most  anxious  task  to  be  plied  by  faith,  of  abiding  in 
Him  Whom  it  had  found  and  enjoyed ;  so,  too,  the  very 
pledge  that  we  succeed  in  giving  of  that  true  abiding  in 
Christ, — the  good  works,  the  fruit  in  which  the  Father 
is  glorified, — these  are  no  final  result,  no  assured  close, 
in  which  the  great  Husbandman  of  our  souls  can  rest 
content.  He  takes  great  delight  in  them,  it  is  true, 
but  His  delight  is  the  delight  of  an  Almighty  love, 
and  such  love  is  infinite,  is  inexhaustible  in  its  require- 
ments. He  rewards  them,  indeed,  but  His  reward,  His 
seal  and  crown  of  joy,  is  to  raise  the  level  of  His  demands. 
We  have  done  something  for  Him :  well  and  good,  it 
shall  be  the  happy  privilege  allotted  to  us,  to  be  given 

1  Preached  at  the  Festival  of  the  Wantage  Home. 


296 


The  Pruning  of  the  Vine. 


the  power  to  do  much  more.  We  have  heen  faithful 
over  a  few  things:  well  done,  ye  good  and  faithful 
servants !  this,  then,  shall  be  your  gain, — to  be  set 
over  many  things,  to  rule  over  cities. 

Nor  will  this  gain  be  easily  won  ;  this  privilege  will 
not  be  without  its  own  anxiety,  and  trouble,  and  severity, 
and  rigour,  and  patience,  and  pain.  No,  the  Lord 
promises  no  light  and  easy  move  upward :  for  the  life 
that  has  already  been  working  in  us,  and  has  brought 
forth  such  good  results,  is  nevertheless  richer,  and 
more  exuberant  than  any  fruit  that  we  have  suffered 
it  as  yet  to  produce  in  us ;  and  hence  comes  our  new 
task.  We  have  not  yet  concentrated  all  our  efficacy  on 
God's  sole  service;  we  have  not  yet  dedicated  all  our 
force  and  energy  to  the  purposes  of  that  fruit,  for 
which  alone  the  Husbandman  trains,  and  tends,  and 
succours  us.  That  life,  that  is  in  us  of  Christ,  as  yet 
pours  out  its  abundance  into  a  thousand  odd  tendrds 
and  superfluous  leaves.  Showy  and  splendid  as  these 
may  look,  they  are  yet  but  passing  and  perishing  gifts, 
without  an  aim,  without  a  work,  ending  in  nothing, 
useless  to  others,  unprofitable  to  that  sweet  purpose  of 
love  which  ever  seeks  to  pass  out  beyond  itself,  and 
to  devote  all  its  whole  strength  to  the  service  of  others, 
to  the  fruit  that  others  will  enjoy.  These,  then,  are 
not  the  fruit  that  the  Father  asks  for,  the  fruit  that 
can  be  put  to  profit,  the  fruit  that  will  abide :  and, 
therefore,  there  is  stern  work  yet  to  be  done,  there  is 
nervous  and  hard  discipline  yet  to  be  endured.  We 
have  not  yet  done  with  that  law  which  bade  us  cut  off 
the  corrupted  hand,  and  pluck  out  the  eye  that  offends. 


The  Pruning  of  the  Vine.  297 


No,  the  reward  that  we  have  won  by  our  high  aims, 
by  our  holy  success,  is  just  this,  that  the  Father 
deems  us  now  worthy  of  His  sharper  handling,  of  His 
more  imperative  care.  He  looks  upon  us  now  with 
something  of  hope :  He  looks  upon  us,  and  His  Heart 
frames,  grander  possibilities,  and  a  finer  end :  He  has 
higher  issues  in  mind :  He  schemes  for  us  a  nobler  per- 
fection than  any  we  have  yet  attained,  yea,  than  any 
we  have  dreamed  of:  and,  therefore,  He  will  draw  His 
knife ;  He  will  shape  us,  and  fashion  us ;  He  will  clean 
off  and  cut  away  all  that  now  uses  up  for  its  own 
delight  the  flowing  sap,  that  might  be  dedicated,  with 
a  more  single  aim,  to  the  purpose  of  fruit.  Quick, 
sharp,  and  clear,  the  biting  edge  of  the  Father's  tool 
passes  in  and  out  of  our  soul's  desires,  its  pleasant 
fancies,  its  manifold  imaginations, — the  pretty  leaves,  the 
merry  curling  tendrils !  there  they  all  lie,  so  swiftly, 
on  the  ground,  given  over  to  the  burning  :  and  all  about 
us  are  little  gashes  and  naked  boughs, — where  we  miss 
that  which  once  delighted,  and  sigh  for  that  which  was 
once  our  pride. 

"  Every  branch  that  beareth  fruit,  God  purgeth  it,  that 
it  may  bring  forth  more  fruit." 

Dearly  beloved,  we  are  met  together  to-day  to 
celebrate,  with  hearty  thanksgiving  to  the  good  God 
Who  giveth  all,  the  precious  and  blessed  work  which 
has  been  done  for  Him  and  for  the  love  of  His  dear 
Son,  by  that  band  of  devoted  Sisters,  whose  beautiful 
home  is  in  this  place. 

Not  for  compliments,  not  for  complacent  self-praise, 
are  we  here;  but  for  the  true  and  invigorating  pro- 


298 


The  Pruning  of  the  Vine. 


fession,  assembled  together  in  the  sight  of  God,  of  our 
grateful  sense  of  His  unspeakable  mercies,  Who  shielded 
so  tenderly  the  days  of  this  holy  society.  Blessed, 
most  blessed,  is  the  life  of  those  who  have  been  per- 
mitted to  devote  their  whole  hearts  and  souls  to  such 
a  service  of  love,  of  tenderness,  of  helpfulness,  of  peace. 
Blessed  is  the  thankful  and  overflowing  sympathy  of 
those  who,  outside  and  apart  from  any  direct  share  in 
this  sweet  working,  have  come  to-day  to  acknowledge 
the  delicious  relief,  that  again  and  again  has  lightened 
all  their  labour,  and  illuminated  all  their  weariness,  as 
they  remembered,  when  their  own  work  seemed  clouded 
with  failure,  and  ruined  by  opposition,  and  defiled  by 
sin,  the  constant,  and  pure,  and  unfailing  devotion  that 
was  passing  out  from  this  Wantage  Home,  in  peaceful 
and  gracious  loveliness,  with  no  check  or  stint,  bringing 
comfort  to  dark  places,  and  healing  to  bruised  and 
broken  lives.  For  this,  and  for  His  enduring  mercies, 
we  thank  and  praise  and  give  glory  to  God  with  one 
heart  and  with  one  mouth  to  day. 

But  it  is  our  Christian  boldness  to  be  able  to  be 
severe  even  in  our  joy,  to  recall  clangers  even  when 
triumphant.  It  is  ours  to  keep  our  footing  sure  then 
when  gladness  is  most  overpowering.  For,  indeed,  we 
Christians  well  know  that  all  our  triumphs,  all  our 
gladness,  are  not  our  looked-for  reward — it  is  not  for 
these  that  we  strive.  They  are  but  helps,  but  encourage- 
ments, but  refreshments,  but  omens, — pledges  of  far  more 
to  come,  symbols  of  larger  fulfilments,  parables  of  that 
infinite  glory  of  God  up  towards  which  we  may  never 
cease  to  move.    Therefore  it  is  that  our  moments  of 


The  Pruning  of  the  Vine. 


299 


thanksgiving  are  moments  in  which  we  gather  our  forces 
for  new  efforts,  and  gird  on  our  armour,  and  brace  up 
nerve  and  sinew.  For  well  we  know  that  the  love  of 
God  can  never  content  itself,  kind  and  tender  as  it  is 
to  our  poor  handiwork.  Well  we  know  that  where  it 
finds  anything,  there  it  delights  to  ask  for  more,  that  to 
him  that  hath  done  work,  to  him  shall  still  more  be 
given ;  that  whenever  it  discovereth  a  branch  that 
bringeth  forth  fruit,  it  purgetli  it,  that  it  may  bring  forth 
more  fruit. 

"  He  purgeth  it."  My  brethren,  if  we  think  over  all 
the  vast  Church  life  of  which  this  Wantage  Sisterhood  is 
so  encouraging  a  sample,  do  we  not  know  what  this 
purging  may  mean  ?  do  we  not  understand  that  this 
purging  may  be  even  now  in  action  ? 

There  is  trouble  behind  and  before  us;  there  are 
searchings  of  hearts,  and  fears,  and  sufferings.  We 
catch  glimpses  of  principles  which  it  will  be  painful 
and  perilous  to  hold  faithfully,  yet  most  desperate  to 
abandon.  We  see  ahead  many  storms  to  brave,  much 
hatred  to  encounter,  many  hearts  to  wound,  many 
sympathies  to  afflict. 

Is  it  hard,  we  think,  having  done  so  much,  having 
worked  so  loyally,  having  won  our  way  so  gallantly,  to 
be  met  still  by  the  dismay  and  confusion,  by  the  alarm 
and  terror  of  war  ?  Is  there  never  to  be  rest,  never  to 
be  satisfaction  ?  Will  there  always  be  tumult  and 
anxiety  ? 

Yes  !  for  this  is  God's  promise ;  this  is  His  care ;  this 
is  His  reward ;  this  is  our  testimony  !  We  cannot  read 
St.  John  and  be  surprised.    Why  should  the  hardships 


3oo 


The  Pruning  of  the  Vine. 


make  us  doubt  ?  For  certainly,  if  we  are  on  the  right 
way,  if  we  are  doing  good  work,  there  will  be  this  in- 
crease of  trouble  and  endurance :  for  this  is  the  way  of 
the  great  Husbandman;  this  is  His  mode  of  showing 
favours  ;  this  is  His  mode  of  blessing  ;  this  is  His  witness 
to  the  branch  that  bringeth  forth  fruit  for  His  glory : 
"  He  purgeth  it,  that  it  may  bring  forth  more." 

And  we, — are  we  not  ripe  for  this  purging  ?  We  are 
puzzled,  perhaps,  to  see  how  this  pain  and  doubt,  that 
surround  us,  attach  themselves  to  so  much  that  belongs 
very  closely  to  our  highest  and  best  spring  of  life.  The 
attack  seems  to  fall  sharpest  on  much  that,  for  itself, 
we  should  not  care  for,  but  which  is  so  intimately  bound 
up  with  our  flow  of  holy  enthusiasm,  so  interwoven 
with  the  whole  movement  of  grace,  that  we  cannot  but 
feel  as  if  it  were  hard  to  be  severe  on  that  which 
certainly  springs  out  of  the  same  spirit  as  that  which 
we  know  to  be  our  life  and  law. 

It  is  our  devotion, — it  is  our  fervour,  we  say, — this  very 
fervour  which  we  all  allow  to  be  Divinely  prompted, 
which  impels  us  to  do  this  or  that  which  offends. 
Surely  it  is  harsh  to  be  too  critical  abouL  what  has  so 
good  and  true  an  origin  '  Surely  to  attack  the  results 
is  to  attack  the  principle  !  Surely  we  may  be  allowed 
a  charitable  latitude, — a  measure  of  kindly  indulgence  ' 

So  we  wonder  and,  perhaps,  fret,  and  grow  impatient ; 
and  yet,  what  does  the  Father's  piirging  imply  ?  These 
leaves,  these  tendrils,  that  His  knife  chips  away,  are 
they  not,  too,  works  of  the  same  Divine  sap  as  that 
which  holds  the  branches  fast  in  Christ,  and  which 
draws  out  of  them  fruit?    Are  not  they,  too,  witnesses 


TJie  Pruning  of  the  I  rine.  30 1 


to  the  exuberance  of  rich  and  flowing  life?  Are  they 
not  delightful  and  lovely  belongings  of  the  Vine,  true 
products  of  its  abundant  energy  ? 

Yes  !  they  prove  life  ;  they  prove  capacity  ;  they  are 
a  sign  and  pledge  of  overflowing  hope.  But  the  Father 
still  asks — are  they  fruit?  Are  they  not  absorbing 
force  that  might  go  to  the  making  of  fruit  ?  Are 
they  not  for  temporary  delight,  for  passing  gratification? 
They  are  pleasant  to  ourselves,  but  do  they  benefit 
others  ?  Can  they  be  dedicated  to  an  abiding  service  ? 
If  not,  even  though  they  be  lovely,  even  though  they 
belong  to  the  true  root,  and  drink  of  the  true  sap,  yet 
cut  them  down,  chip  them  short,  save  their  sap  for 
purer  and  less  selfish  uses. 

Far  from  expecting  indulgence  for  a  larger  self- 
gratification,  as  we  advance  in  God's  work  it  is  this 
very  gratification  that  He  sets  Himself  to  curtail  in 
those  who  serve  Him  best.  This  is  His  pruning. 
Those  who  know  less  of  God  can  be  allowred  this 
plenitude  of  leaves,  their  present  feelings  of  con- 
tentment, their  sense  of  gratified  satisfaction,  their 
easy-going  self-pleasing.  But  the  more  we  show  signs 
of  aspiration,  then  the  higher  rises  the  rigour  of  self- 
sacrifice ;  the  less  are  we  allowed  for  self;  the  less  can 
it  be  permitted  us  to  stray  outside  the  strict  and 
rigid  lines  of  a  complete  dedication. 

You  have  offered  Me  something  of  yourself — says  our 
God — try,  then,  to  offer  Me  the  whole ;  let  Me  cut  off 
all  that,  however  good,  and  fair,  and  pleasant,  yet 
diminishes  the  completeness  of  your  self-surrender. 

This  is  the  force  of  Christ's  question :   Will  ye 


302  The  Priming  of  the  Vine. 


abide  in  My  love  ?  Your  faith  has  been  bold  enough  to 
come ;  has  it  then  the  strength  and  the  courage  to 
abide  while  I  work  ?  abide  while  I  purge  and  perfect  it  ? 

It  is  this  question  which  we  of  to-day  have  now  to 
face.  We  are  of  those  who  trust  that  it  has  been  given 
them,  by  no  merit  of  theirs,  to  sit  within  the  upper 
chamber,  among  Christ's  friends  :  we  have  been  suffered 
to  take  our  part  in  the  great  mission  of  the  world's 
evangelization:  we  have  been  knit  into  the  Vine;  we 
share  in  its  wondrous  growth. 

That  growth  has  been,  in  England,  a  rapid  and 
unchecked  triumph  for  forty  marvellous  years  ;  and  God 
forbid  that  any  one  should  bar  its  advance  now,  or 
should  attempt  to  cry  to  it — Enough,  so  far  and  no 
further  shalt  thou  go  ! 

There  is  much  yet  before  us  ;  we  are  not  yet  near  the 
turning-point ;  it  is  not  the  main  onward  flow  that  is  to 
be  nipped  and  stopped — thanks  be  to  God  ! 

But  there  is  still  about  us — who  will  deny  it? — so 
much  of  that  audacity,  that  overflow  of  spirits,  that 
free  and  heedless  abandonment,  that  exuberant  loose- 
ness, which  are  easily  forgiven  to  the  first  flush  of 
excitement,  but  which  cannot  be  suffered  to  outlive 
that  early  time.  They  have  a  certain  charm — the  charm 
of  frankness,  of  ease,  of  confidence,  of  spontaneity : 
they  may  even  have  done  good  work  for  a  moment. 
But,  nevertheless,  God,  Who  looks  for  abiding  fruit,  for 
permanent  proof,  cannot  for  long  away  with  them.  For 
quickly,  if  we  cling  to  this  temper,  quickly  these 
almost  innocent  habits  turn  into  vanities,  into  self- 
pleasing  fancies,  into  wilfulness,  into  hardness,  into 


The  Pruning  of  the  Vine. 


303 


offence,  into  extravagance,  into  insolence.  They  were 
hardly  sinful  when  they  first  came;  rather  they  were 
the  signs  of  brimming  power,  the  overflow  of  noble 
enthusiasm ;  but  the  sin  is  to  refuse  to  let  them  go. 
Charming,  graceful,  captivating  as  this  exuberance  of 
youthful  feeling  may  be,  God's  knife  is  out,  and  woe 
to  us  now  of  this  generation,  if  we  will  not  suffer  Him 
to  cut  away  what  He  will ! 

The  sterner  demand  is  once  more  to  be  made  upon 
us;  the  more  solemn  and  momentous  days  have  arrived; 
the  severer  discipline  is  being  applied  ;  we  must  put 
away  our  childish  things :  "  We  have  brought  forth 
fruit ! "  yea,  we  are  a  living  branch ;  and  therefore  God 
is  preparing  to  purge  us,  that  we  "  may  bring  forth  more 
fruit," 

One  word  on  our  own  inner  lives.  There,  too,  how 
surely,  how  sagely,  this  law  penetrates.  God,  in 
His  Fatherly  tenderness,  allows  us,  in  our  early  days 
of  spiritual  living,  so  much  emotional  attraction,  so 
much  of  childish  conceit,  so  mucli  of  self-confidence, 
so  much  of  ready  outflow !  He  smiles  over  our  little 
wayward  imaginations,  our  tiny  insolence,  our  gaieties, 
our  careless  freedoms.  These  are  but  the  testimonies 
of  His  abundant  Presence  within  us,  and  He  can  lightly 
forgive  them. 

But,  since  they  are  signs  of  His  present  power,  that 
power  may  be  put  to  better  use ;  and,  soon,  the  higher 
light  breaks  in  upon  our  souls,  and  we  see  the  more 
rigid  principle,  and  we  become  aware  of  the  selfishness, 
of  the  wilfulness,  of  the  pride,  that  were  but  half  con- 
cealed in  our  religious  excitement,  in  our  spiritual 
delights,  in  our  godly  service. 


304 


The  Priming  of  the  Vine. 


Then  it  is  that  we  shall  know  ourselves  beneath  the 
searching  ej^es  of  Jesus  in  the  secrecy  of  His  familiar 
intimacy  with  His  friends. 

Then  it  is  that  He  will  beseech  us — "  Abide  in  Me  ! 
Do  not  fear  !  it  is  because  you  have  abode,  and  have 
brought  forth  some  fruit,  that  God's  weapon  is  now 
sharpening  itself  for  you ;  to  purge  you  of  all  these 
gay  tendrils  and  overflowing  leaves — to  purge  you  that 
you  may  bring  forth  more  fruit :  Summon  up  your 
faith,  then,  to  abide  in  Me — to  abide,  even  though 
you  pass  so  swiftly  from  that  happy  upper  chamber 
to  the  bitter  agony  of  the  garden,  and  the  shame, 
the  misery,  the  blow  and  darkness  of  the  Cross." 

Is  it  depressing,  to  have  spoken  thus  to  you  this 
morning  ?  Surely  not, — surely,  it  is  the  keenest  of 
all  joys,  to  feel  ourselves  under  the  direct  handling  of 
God;  the  most  bracing  of  all  triumphs,  to  know  that 
all  our  present  victories  are  to  be  left  behind,  that 
we  may  pass  on  to  still  finer  achievements,  to  still 
purer  glories. 

Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  in  God's  Name,  the  pangs 
and  perils,  the  wounds  and  the  scourges  that  may  await 
us,  if  these  come  to  cleanse  our  souls,  and  purge  our 
selfishness,  and  perfect  our  sanctification,  and  complete 
our  self-sacrifice. 


SERMON  XX. 


THE  SLEEP,  AND  THE  WAKING. 

"  (Chen  shall  the  Bingbom  of  $cabcn  be  lihenrb  unto  ten  birgins, 
fohieh  took  their  lamps,  anb  tocnt  forth  to  tnert  the  Briflegroom." — 
St.  Matt.  xxv.  i. 

The  Service  is  already  full  of  Christmas ; 1  but  let  me, 
before  Advent  is  utterly  passed  away,  recall  your 
thoughts  yet  once  more  to  that  great  prophecy  of  the 
last  things  in  St.  Matthew,  towards  the  close  of  which  our 
Lord  suddenly  introduces  the  parable  of  the  Ten  Virgins. 

"  Then  ! "  We  look  up,  astray  and  bewildered,  into  our 
Lord's  face,  as  He  sits  there  on  the  Mount  of  Olives,  the 
Mount  of  His  redeeming  agony  now  so  nigh,  and  gazes 
out  across  the  narrow  valley  over  to  the  walls  of  the 
ancient  city,  to  the  glories  and  loveliness  of  God's  Holy 
Temple ;  and,  even  as  He  gazes  and  speaks,  the  walls 
dissolve,  and  the  towers,  and  all  the  cloud-capped 
palaces ;  the  very  stones,  great  and  wonderful,  seem  to 
move  under  His  words;  the  whole  mountain  of  Zion 
begins  to  shake  and  displace  its  solid  frame  under 
the  power  of  His  unearthly  faith ;  and  with  Jerusalem, 
the  kingdoms  of  the  world,  too,  and  all  their  storied 
histories,  shift  like  unsteady  clouds  down  the  long  and 
changing  centuries,  under  the  motion  of  His  breath; 

1  Preached  on  Christmas  Eve. 
U 


306  The  Sleep,  and  the  Waking. 

and  still  He  speaks,  and  still  new  visions  come,  and 
shape  themselves,  and  go.  And  we,  we  who,  like  those 
faithful  four,  Peter  and  James,  and  John  and  Andrew, 
have  heen  stirred  by  some  dark  utterance  of  His  on  the 
ruin  of  the  temples  which  our  hands  have  built,  and  have 
pressed  into  our  Lord's  Presence  to  know  more  of  what 
He  meant,  and  have  caught  Him  alone,  and  have  asked 
our  questions,  "  When  shall  these  things  be  ?  and  what 
shall  be  the  sign  ?  " — we,  I  say,  find  ourselves  caught 
up  into  an  answer  which  overfloods  our  senses  with  its 
fulness  and  compass ;  an  answer  which  seems  to  play 
with  time  and  space,  as  with  creatures  of  its  own  handi- 
work; an  answer  which  seems  to  be  speaking  of  a 
thousand  things  at  once,  of  Jerusalem,  and  of  the 
Church,  and  of  the  world,  and  of  our  single  souls,  and  of 
life,  and  of  resurrection,  and  of  death,  and  of  judgment. 
Into  this  vast  answer,  epochs  are  swept  up  indistinguish- 
ably ;  whole  masses  of  mankind  and  of  life  pass  from 
transition  to  transition  :  in  vain  we  attempt  to  kiy  hands 
on  them,  and  hold  them  fast ;  in  vain  to  fix  and  compel 
a  clear  and  single  response  :  even  as  we  lay  our  finger 
on  the  place,  and  on  the  date,  the  vision  has  moved,  has 
widened,  has  escaped.  We  cannot  keep  our  footing:  we 
are  ourselves  not  outside  the  vision,  but  are  included 
within  its  scope  :  we  and  all  are  lifted  and  swept  along 
with  its  rhythmic  changes,  with  its  endless  movement : 
the  laws  of  time  and  of  transition  are  the  same  within 
the  circle  of  our  little  being  as  they  are  in  the  larger 
schemes  of  humanity's  evolution  :  what  is  spoken  of  the 
one  is  spoken  of  the  other.  "  Then,"  says  our  Lord, 
"  then  shall  the  kingdom  be  likened."  "  When,  Lord  ? " 
we  ask,  and  a  hundred  voices  seem  to  give  us  an  answer, 


The  Sleep,  and  the  Waking.  307 


Then,  when  the  end  of  the  world  draws  near;  then, 
when  the  Son  of  Man  is  close  to  His  coming;  then,  when 
the  Advent  dawn  is  breaking  in  the  skies  of  time.  And 
yet,  again,  that  Advent  is  always  nigh  in  the  process  of 
history,  nations,  and  races ;  that  coming  is  always  ap- 
proaching: that  end  is  always  ending:  and,  therefore, 
then,  whenever  Jerusalem  falls  ;  then,  when  nations  go 
down  to  dark  ruins ;  then,  when  the  people  are  shaken, 
and  the  boundaries  are  removed ;  then,  when  new  lights 
are  in  the  heavens,  and  cries  of  redemption  are  sounding, 
amid  the  falling  of  stars  and  the  darkenings  and  shudder- 
ings  of  sun  and  moon.  And  yet,  again,  no  generation 
shall  pass  away  until  that  Advent  is  fulfilled,  until  that 
end  is  begun  ;  and,  therefore,  once  more,  then,  when  year 
by  year  and  hour  by  hour  souls  break  up,  and  earth 
melts  away,  and  strength  ebbs  from  hearts  that  feel  the 
blood  run  slower,  from  souls  that  are  sick  with  the  sure 
touch  of  decay ;  then,  when  the  eyes  grow  dimmer,  and 
the  darkness  and  the  desolation  of  death  gathers  in  upon 
man  and  woman,  upon  young  and  old ;  then,  when  the 
old  is  ready  to  vanish,  and  the  awful  Presence  of  the 
Unknown  New  is  felt  to  be  suddenly  drawn  close,  and 
many  are  calling  to  the  hills  to  fall  upon  them,  and  to 
the  mountains  to  cover  them ;  then,  when  this  or  that 
generation  of  the  faithful  lies  waiting  on  its  deathbed,  in 
trembling  hope,  for  the  inbreaking  of  God's  tremendous 
Majesty ;  then,  and  then,  and  then  "  shall  the  Kingdom 
of  Heaven  be  likened  unto  ten  virgins,  who  took  their 
lamps,  and  went  forth  to  meet  the  Bridegroom." 

This  is  the  force,  therefore,  of  that  mysterious  "Then," 
and  this,  therefore,  the  lesson ;  that  whenever  things  of 
earth  fall  into  fragments  under  the  feet  of  men,  when- 


308  The  Sleep,  and  the  Waking. 


ever  death  is  in  the  air  above  us,  and  dissolution  is  at 
work  within,  whenever  there  comes  the  day  when  "  the 
keepers  of  the  house  shall  tremble,  and  the  strong  men 
shall  bow  themselves,  and  the  doors  shall  be  shut  in  the 
streets,  and  the  sound  of  the  grinding  is  low,  and  the 
grasshopper  shall  be  a  burden,  and  desire  shall  fail,  and 
man  goeth  to  his  long  home,  and  the  mourners  go  about 
the  street,"  whether  it  be  the  deathday  of  a  generation 
or  of  the  whole  earth, — then,  in  that  day  of  gloom,  and 
discmiet,  and  horrible  sadness,  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven 
shall  not  sit  down  with  the  trembling  people  in  the 
dust,  the  Kingdom  of  Christ  shall  not  be  brought  low 
with  all  those  daughters  of  music,  the  Kingdom  of  God 
shall  not  be  afraid,  nor  look  in  blank  grief  out  of  its 
darkened  windows.  No  !  it  is  then,  when  all  is  failing, 
that  it  shows  itself  to  be  possessed  with  the  splendour 
of  an  immense  hope,  with  the  joy  of  a  fulfilled  ex- 
pectancy. Till  then,  till  that  hour  of  terrible  crisis, 
this  hope,  this  expectancy,  may  have  lain  hid  and 
smothered.  Men  may  have  looked  upon  the  Kingdom 
of  Heaven,  and  seen  no  such  likeness  to  ten  virgins  in 
it, — the  shape,  the  attitude  of  expectancy  had  not  yet 
come  over  it :  it  seemed  to  belong  to  the  everyday 
life  of  earth,  to  be  indistinguishable  from  the  turmoil 
of  the  kingdoms  of  this  world.  But  now  that  the  king- 
doms fade  and  the  earth  darkens,  now,  at  last,  the 
sign  of  power  is  upon  the  Church ;  now,  at  last,  the 
secret  of  her  life  breaks  out.  Over  all  else  there  is 
falling  the  ashy  pallor  of  despair ;  but  with  her  a  new 
life  quickens :  she  lifts  up  her  head :  she  listens  for 
the  call,  for  the  shining  of  the  glory  :  she  gathers  up 
her  limbs,  and  rises  with  joy  and  grace  and  beauty: 


The  Sleep,  and  the  Waking.  303 


she  arrays  herself  in  splendour,  and  over  her  is  shed 
the  delight  of  virgin  youthfulness  :  she  is  seen,  through 
the  clash  and  ruin  of  worlds,  going  forth,  amid  the 
light  of  her  lamps,  to  the  triumph  of  a  festal  procession, 
to  the  merry  gladness  of  a  wedding.  "  Then  shall  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven  be  likened  unto  ten  virgins,  who  took 
their  lamps,  and  went  forth  to  meet  the  Bridegroom." 

Would  that  we  could  sometimes  have  it  given  us 
to  see  this  likeness  of  a  great  expectancy  come  over 
our  Church !  Would  that  she  herself  could  throw 
herself,  in  Advent  days,  into  the  attitude  of  those  who 
look  away  from  earth  for  One  Who  cometh  from 
afar  !  Our  Lord,  you  see,  speaks  of  the  whole  Kingdom 
of  Heaven  being  like  to  ten  virgins.  Not  this  or  that 
saint  in  it,  but  the  whole  kingdom,  in  its  entire  mass,  is 
to  be  as  those  who  pass  out  from  our  homes  on  earth  to 
a  marriage  meeting.  One  single  passion  is,  as  it  were, 
to  thrill  through  the  whole  bulk  of  the  Church.  She 
would  seem  no  longer  the  mixed,  and  complex,  and 
intricate  thing  that  she  is  apt  to  seem,  without  clear 
outlines  or  distinguishable  purpose ;  rather,  the  whole 
body  of  the  faithful  would  disentangle  itself  from  the 
crowd  of  cares  and  busy  confusions  of  the  day,  and 
with  one  impulse,  decisive,  strong,  supreme,  with  one 
undivided  will,  would  rise  and  pass  out  to  meet  the 
coming  Lord.  The  whole  kingdom  would  be  as  ten 
virgins  going  forth  with  their  lamps. 

And,  observe,  it  is  not  the  invisible  Church  of  the 
Faithful,  not  merely  the  Church  of  the  Saints,  the 
Mystic  Bride  of  the  Bridegroom's  election,  that  is  so  to 
appear ;  but  all  the  virgins  that  bear  her  company,  be 
they  wise  or  foolish,  all  the  mixed- Church  militant, 


310  The  Sleep,  and  the  Waking. 


with  its  good  and  its  bad  alike — it  is  this  Church,  as  it 
is  on  earth,  which  is  so  to  he  possessed  with  this 
spiritual  outlook  for  Christ,  that  it  will  show  its  strange, 
its  superhuman  purpose  in  its  every  shape  and  attitude. 
The  very  gesture,  the  gait,  the  aspect  of  the  Church, 
are  to  be  instinct  with  the  impulse  heavenward,  are  to 
be  set  away  from  earth.  Not  that  she  is  not  to  serve 
Christ  here :  the  parable  of  the  talents  is  given  to 
teach  her  the  character  of  her  earthly  service :  it  is 
no  idle  day  of  contemplation  that  is  here  allotted  to 
her :  she  is  to  work  well  and  heartily ;  but,  still,  when 
the  daylight  dies,  and  when  man,  the  man  who  is  the 
creature  of  nature,  the  lord  of  earth,  going  forth  to  his 
work  and  to  his  labour  until  the  evening,  is  creeping 
home  tired  and  weary,  worn  and  wasted  with  long 
labour,  to  the  night  of  death,  the  night  of  terror  and 
dismay,  the  night  wherein  all  the  beasts  of  the  forest 
do  move,  lions  roaring  after  their  prey ;  then  the  Church 
ought  to  clearly  show  itself  to  him,  as  something 
not  dying  down  to  its  end  like  him,  hut  as  something 
whose  joy  is  only  beginning  when  its  day  of  earthly 
work  is  done,  as  inspired  by  a  spirit  that  looks  away 
to  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth.  Men  of  the  world 
would  look  up,  if  our  Christian  lives  were  all  tuned 
to  the  music  of  Christ, — the  natural  man  would  look 
up  from  the  dull  embers  of  his  fire  where  he  sits,  sad 
and  forlorn  with  age  and  weariness,  in  the  dark  house 
of  the  flesh  :  he  would  hear  a  sudden  noise  in  the  streets, 
a  rustling  of  garments,  a  gleam  of  lamps,  a  passing 
to  and  fro  in  the  night :  he  would  look  out  of  his 
lattice-window,  and,  lo !  the  Church  of  Christ  goes 
bv  in  the  darkness,  sweeping  along,  amid  song,  and 


The  Sleep,  and  I  he  Waking.  3 1 1 


gladness,  and  light,  to  some  joy  that  earth  knows  not, 
to  some  triumph  that  the  day  of  man  has  never  seen. 
A  new  youth  has  come  upon  her,  just  when  age  and 
decay  ought  to  drag  her  down  :  she  sweeps  along,  white, 
fresh,  glistening,  like  a  band  of  virgins,  like  a  troop 
of  shining  stars.  For  her,  "the  winter  is  already  past, 
the  rain  is  over  and  gone,  the  time  of  the  singing 
is  come :  she  sleeps,  but  her  heart  waketh :  by  night 
she  seeketh  Him  Whom  her  soul  loveth,  for  already 
the  voice  of  the  Beloved  knocketh  at  the  door  of  her 
soul,  crying,  Open  to  Me,  My  sister.  Eise  up,  My  love, 
My  fair  one,  and  come  away." 

Let  me  bring  before  you  one  or  two  points  which  this 
character  of  expectancy,'  which  our  Lord  so  vivid])' 
ascribes  to  the  Church  on  earth,  may  help  to  clear  up. 

We  are  all  often  puzzled  how  to  use  the  high  ideal 
language  about  the  Church,  or  about  Christian  souls, 
which  is  so  frequent  in  the  Epistles  of  St.  John  and 
St.  Paul.  For,  after  all,  how  very  vague  and  fluctu- 
ating are  the  lines  that  can  be  drawn  between  the 
Cli  nch  and  the  world,  between  the  baptized  and  the 
unbaptized,  between  the  religious  and  the  irreligious 
soul !  We  pass  up  and  down  the  world,  and  see  and 
hear  men  of  all  sorts  live,  and  move,  and  talk,  and 
all  look  very  much  alike,  and  all  say  very  much  the 
same  things, — a  little  better,  or  a  little  worse,  it  may  be, 
but  still  all  appear  to  be  of  the  same  stamp  and  calibre, 
turned  out  at  the  same  manufactory.  And  if  we  turn 
to  history,  the  Church  seems  to  push  its  way  along  by 
much  the  same  process  as  earthly  societies :  it  has  its 
clever  ministers,  its  good  occasions,  its  mistakes,  its 
hopes,  its  fears  its  ambitions,  its  intrigues :  it  works  by 


3  t  2  The  Sleep,  and  the  Waking. 


the  everyday  influences :  it  learns  by  experience :  it 
profits  by  circumstances :  it  lives  for  the  needs  of  the 
day :  we  can  trace  out,  according  to  the  degree  of  our 
knowledge,  why  it  succeeded  here,  why  it  failed  there. 
And,  then,  still  closer  we  can  go.  How  much  effort  we 
ourselves  seem  to  make  to  live  the  life  of  holiness  ' 
How  many  hours  we  spend  in  prayer  !  How  often  do 
we  go  on,  week  after  week,  year  after  year,  receiving 
the  Body  and  Blood  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ !  How 
much  watchfulness,  and  care,  and  anxiety  we  spend 
upon  our  spiritual  welfare :  and  yet  there  is  so  little 
result !  We  get  on.  such  a  very  little  way :  we  are  so 
very  little,  if  at  all,  better  than  people  who  take  no 
trouble  whatever :  they  keep  their  tempers  as  well  as 
we  do :  they  are  kind,  often  so  much  kinder  than  we  are: 
to  others  they  are  quite  as  pleasant  and  helpful,  if  not 
more :  they  do  their  duty,  as  it  appears,  quite  as  faith- 
fully :  they  are  upright,  honest,  sober,  hardworking, — 
would  we  were  always  as  true,  as  devoted,  as  self- 
sacrificing,  as  they !  and  yet  they  do  not  pray  or 
worship  ;  they  do  not  use  the  Sacraments ;  they  do  not 
think  about  God;  they  do  not  seem  to  strive  after  a 
higher  life,  as  we  do.  It  seems  so  strange,  as  if  all  our 
efforts  came  to  nothing,  as  if  our  religious  life  did 
nothing  for  us,  as  if  we  were  wasting  our  strength  on 
what  brought  in  no  adequate  result.  Where  does  all 
the  force  we  spend  go  to  ?  What  has  happened  with 
it  all  ?    Why  is  there  no  more  difference  ? 

This  is  a  most  real,  a  most  serious,  sometimes  a  most 
startling  question,  to  all  who  have  striven  along  the  way 
of  holiness  ;  and,  I  think,  this  parable  of  the  virgins  is  full 
of  help  towards  an  answer.    It  tells  us  that  it  is  this 


The  Sleep,  and  tJie  Waking, 


313 


very  exjieclanr//  which  explains  our  difficulty.  The 
Christian  life,  the  Christian  Church,  these  do  not  reveal 
their  strong  and  vivid  distinctiveness  here  on  earth,  just 
because  their  day  is  yet  to  come.  We  may  live,  and  eat, 
and  talk,  and  work,  and  play,  and  laugh,  and  love  on 
earth  among  our  fellows  ;  we  may  do  all  this  in  the 
full  spirit  and  truth  of  our  faith,  under  its  influential 
sanction  :  we  ought  to  do  this  with  a  freedom,  and  a  power 
that,  without  our  faith,  would  be  impossible.  Christian 
gentleness  ought  to  inherit  the  earth.  This  is  all  true. 
But,  still,  not  here  is  our  abiding  city,  not  of  the  world 
are  we  :  our  home,  our  reality,  our  true  society  are  else- 
where; our  conversation,  our  fabric  of  life,  are  in 
heaven.  There,  with  God,  and  with  all  the  companies  of 
heaven ;  there,  with  angels  and  archangels  ;  there,  with 
prophet,  and  apostle,  and  martyr ;  there,  with  the 
household  of  God,  the  fellowship  of  the  saints,  the 
assembly  of  the  firstborn ;  there,  with  all  our  beloved 
(lead  in  Christ— there  it  is  that  we  humbly  hope  to  live, 
and  move ;  there  we  should  be  indeed  at  home,  in  the 
haven  where  we  would  be;  there,  if  it  may  be,  we 
would  eat,  and  drink,  and  see  God,  and  sup  with  Jesus  : 
and,  if  so,  then  we  can  never  show  our  real  strength, 
our  inner  dignity,  while  we  are  yet  outside  the  New 
Jerusalem,  while  we  are  yet  on  the  pilgrimage  to  the 
golden  gates.  "Here,  on  earth,  is  riot  our  rest,  our 
satisfaction:  here,  on  earth,  therefore,  we  cannot  put 
forth  all  our  powers,  or  know  the  full  significance  of  our 
spiritual  graces  :  the  meaning  of  our  innermost  life  is 
still  unrevealed  ;  it  is  shut  off  from  its  true  sphere  of 
work.  Our  life  is  still  hid  with  Christ  in  God.  Here,  in 
tlic  world,  and  by  means  of  the  world,  we  prepare  and 


3i4 


The  Sleep,  and  the  Waking. 


shape  our  souls  for  heaven ;  we  fashion  our  spirits  to 
the  likeness  of  God :  but  here  we  do  not  see  God  as  He 
is ;  we  do  not  meet  Him  in  cool  evenings  amid  the  trees 
of  the  garden.  Still,  as  yet,  for  us  on  earth,  He  is  a  God 
Who  hideth  Himself,  a  God  Who  seeth  in  secret ;  and, 
therefore,  still  our  souls  do  not  meet  their  fulfilment, 
do  not  find  their  satisfaction,  do  not  prove  themselves 
to  be  what  they  are.  Only  when  the  light  of  heaven 
breaks  in,  only  when  God  shows  Himself  in  the 
tremendous  majesty  of  His  awful  splendour, — only 
then  shall  we  know  the  interpretation  of  our  long 
preparation ;  only  then,  will  the  Spirit's  hidden  and 
mysterious  faculties,  long  matured  in  the  secret  womb 
of  the  flesh,  start  into  life  at  the  summons  of  that  for 
which  they  have  been  made  ready,  and  in  which  they 
are  alive ;  only  then  shall  it  be  seen  which  soul  can 
endure  the  Presence  of  God,  and  which  has  no  answering 
capacity  to  greet  that  appearing.  Then,  in  that  fearful 
moment  of  decision,  when  God  advances  to  welcome  the 
souls  that  are  His,  it  will  most  surely  be  determined, 
with  the  vigour  of  an  undeniable  fact,  which  of  us  are 
good,  and  which  are  evil.  Plain,  sharp,  relentless,  the 
line  of  division  will  run  along  between  man  and  man, 
between  mother  and  child,  between  husband  and  wife, 
between  friend  and  friend;  and  to  those  on  the  one  side, 
the  light  of  God's  shining  will  come  as  a  friendly  thing, 
enfolding  them  in  the  joy  of  a  welcome  long  known, 
long  waited  for,  a  welcome  to  meet  which  all  the  full 
force  of  the  soul  breaks  out  in  confident  exultation ; 
and  to  those  on  the  other,  that  very  same  glorious 
shining  will  seem  as  a  flaming  fire,  which  scorches, 
shrivels,  devours,  blinding  the  eyes  which  are  focussetl 


The  Sleep,  and  the  Waking.  3 1  5 

only  to  the  darkness  of  earth,  burning  up,  with  the; 
horaojr^  ©pea  shame,  the  flash  whose  foul  hiding-places 
it  makes  manifest  with  its  merciless  glare.  Yes,  we 
Christians  live  for  another  day  than  this  our  day  of 
earthly  life  :  we  live  in  view  of  a  crisis  to  come.  For  a 
crisis  it  must  be,  that  day  of  the  Lord's  appearance,  in 
that  it  first  will  bring  in  the  new  conditions,  our  true 
home  ;  and,  therefore,  it  first  will  show  who  is  ready  for 
the  new,  who  can  accept  the  life  of  the  hereafter.  The 
coming  is  the  coming  of  the  Bridegroom,  the  coming 
of  Him  to  Whom  our  whole  souls  go  out,  the  coming 
of  immense  and  eternal  joy.  But  it  cannot,  for  all  that, 
help  being  a  coming  to  judge  between  good  and  evil, 
between  light  and  darkness,  between  sheep  and  goats. 
For  He  Who  comes,  cometh  to  count  up  His  jewels ; 
and,  therefore,  then,  at  least,  it  may  no  longer  be  kept 
hidden  which  are  flawed  and  which  are  soiled. 

Let  us  remember  our  parable.  Our  ten  virgins 
had  waited  for  the  tarrying  Bridegroom,  with  one 
purpose,  one  impulse,  one  beauty.  All  were  as  one 
body,  all  were  clothed  in  the  same  garments,  all 
bore  the  lamp  of  expectancy.  There  was  no  out- 
ward sign  to  show  which  was  wise  and  which  was 
foolish  ;  for  as  yet  they  only  waited  ;  they  only  pre- 
pared for  a  coming  hour.  So  soldiers,  who  prepare 
for  a  great  battle-day,  give  no  obvious  sign  as  yet,  in 
the  everyday  drill,  which  of  them  will  be  brave, 
and  which  be  cowardly,  in  the  day  of  blood,  and  fire, 
and  vapour  of  smoke.  All  wheel,  and  march,  and 
skirmish  with  equal  precision,  with  the  same  skill 
and  sureness.  Perhaps,  indeed,  the  officer,  who  watches 
closely  day  by  day,  may  have  a  suspicion  that  this 


3 1 6  The  Sleep,  and  the  Waking-. 


man  will  prove  himself  a  better  man  than  that ;  but 
to  the  general  onlooker  the  outward  effect  exhibits  no 
distinctions.  Only,  when  the  great  day  of  trial  comes, 
with  its  tiery  demand  to  do  or  die,  only  then,  will  the 
fatal  decision  be  made  clear  between  the  man  who 
stands  loyal  to  death  and  the  man  who  turns  pale 
and  flees. 

So  it  is  with  the  virgins,  who  picture  the  Church  in 
its  time  of  preparation.  And  this  outward  sameness  lasts 
on  throughout  the  whole  interval  of  delay.  They  all,  wise 
and  foolish  alike,  slumbered  and  slept,  while  the  Bride- 
groom tarried.  Until  the  day  of  the  Lord  comes,  the 
Church  is  still  in  the  night,  still  slumbering  and  sleeping. 
Our  life  on  earth  is  a  slumber ;  it  is  not  our  real  life : 
we  are  not  putting  forth  our  life  in  it :  our  spiritual 
secret  is  asleep,  is  waiting  to  reveal  its  strength ;  it  is 
not  acting  yet  in  all  its  power;  it  only  makes  itself 
felt  in  dim,  dreamy  movements,  prophetic  of  a  larger 
and  richer  awakening.  So  here,  while  the  spirit 
slumbers,  all  are  the  same,  all  equally  sleep,  whether 
possessed  of  spiritual  grace  or  not.  The  sleep  of  the 
good  may  be  more  quiet,  more  confident,  more  restful 
than  the  sleep  of  the  unready,  the  bad.  But  still,  to 
all  and  for  all,  it  is  sleep :  the  spirit  sleeps.  And  so, 
too,  to  all  equally,  the  slumber  of  earthly  life  closes 
in  the  long,  dull  sleep  of  death.  All,  good  and  bad 
alike,  lay  themselves  down  indistinguishably  in  the 
bed  of  the  tomb.  The  gloom  of  an  awful  silence  covers 
them  all;  the  heavy  earth  hides  all;  the  blind  grass 
grows  over  and  covers  them ;  it  asks  not  whether  they 
be  wise  or  whether  they  be  foolish.  No  line  of  fire 
divides  and  saves.    Impenetrable,  speechless  darkness 


The  Sleep,  and  the  Waking.  3 1  7 


engulfs  them  all  into  its  secret  places:  "One  thing 
befalleth  them;  as  the  one  dieth,  so  dieth  the  other. 
All  go  unto  one  place.  All  are  of  the  dust,  and  all 
turn  to  dust  again."  "  We  see  that  wise  men  also 
die  and  perish  together,  as  well  as  the  ignorant  and 
foolish,  and  leave  their  riches  for  another."  They  all 
slumber  and  sleep, — true  and  false,  wise  and  foolish, 
pure  and  impure,  holy  and  unholy.  Why  not  ?  Death 
is  but  the  tag  of  this  life ;  and  as  in  this  life  they  are 
more  or  less  indistinguishable  the  one  from  the  other,  so 
in  their  physical  death,  too,  they  are  not  divided.  It 
"s  not  for  any  day  of  earth  that  we  trim  our  lain] is  ; 
and,  therefore,  not  on  this  side  of  death  shall  we  see 
the  truth  of  our  lives  made  manifest  in  full  relief.  The 
day  beyond  death,  the  day  that  tramples  on  death, 
the  day  of  resurrection,  the  day  of  immortality, — that 
is  the  day  for  which  we  live  ;  that,  and  that  only,  is  the 
clay  for  which  we  make  ready;  and  therefore  it  is  that 
then,  and  then  only,  shall  be  seen  the  fruit  of  all  our  long 
toiling:  then,  and  then  only,  shall  we  know  the  secret 
of  our  efforts  :  then,  at  last,  after  many  days,  shall  we 
find  the  bread  that  long  ago  we  cast  upon  the  waters. 

This,  then,  is  our  lesson.  We  live  here,  not  ex- 
pecting to  see  why,  until  the  day  of  the  Lord  comes. 
The  holiness  at  which  we  labour  is  not  to  have  its 
full  life  here.  We  must  spend  effort  after  effort  upon 
it,  though  we  see  so  little  difference  in  our  daily  lives 
in  comparison  with  the  effort  spent.  For  the  question 
is  not,  do  I  now  stand  oft'  openly  from  evil,  as  light 
from  darkness,  as  life  from  death  ? — there,  in  this 
dull  gloom  of  night,  such  a  marked  separation  is  im- 
possible— but,  am  I  such  as  could  rise  to  welcome 


3 1 8  The  Sleep,  and  the  Waking. 

our  Lord,  the  Holy,  the  Pure,  the  Righteous  ?  When 
He  breaks  in  in  all  His  glory,  have  I  secret  strength 
stored  up  for  a  critical  hour  hereafter  ? 

And  the  parable  makes  this  question  more  searching, 
by  addressing  its  warning  to  all  those  who  are  already 
embraced  by  the  Christian  life.  It  bids  them  beware,  lest 
the  life  into  which  they  are  born  becomes  itself  the  peril. 
All  the  virgins  have  lamps  lighted ;  all  of  them  are 
on  the  way  to  greet  the  Bridegroom  ;  all  have  been 
set  in  tune  to  the  great  Hope.  They  are  all,  wise  and 
foolish,  stepping  heavenward.  And  so,  we  who  are 
Christian-born,  we  of  the  latter  days,  we,  too,  be  we  wise 
or  be  we  foolish,  start  with  our  lamps  already  lit.  The 
heavenly  oil  of  God's  grace  has  already  filled  the  lamp 
of  our  souls :  the  flame  of  the  Holy  Ghost  has  lighted 
upon  us:  we  are  not  mere  children  of  nature,  even 
from  the  first :  already,  before  we  choose,  we  are  made 
children  of  the  Most  High ;  we  grow  up  in  a  Christian 
atmosphere;  we  inherit  a  Christian  breeding.  The  gifts 
of  forgiving  love  are  taken  in  with  the  air  we  breathe. 
The  natuial  passions  are  already  soothed  and  trained 
under  the  discipline  of  the  Cross,  without  any  effort  of  our 
own.  Anger,  envy,  lust,  witchcraft, — these  are  somewhat 
cast  out  of  our  souls,  by  the  long  action  of  Christian 
influence  through  many  centuries,  through  a  hundred 
generations.  The  Christian  home,  the  Christian  society 
— these,  the  work  of  the  unwearied  Spirit  has  sanctified 
and  sweetened.  In  a  word,  we  find  ourselves  living  by 
nature,  as  it  were,  for  Christ,  for  heaven,  for  the  here- 
after :  we  find  ourselves,  of  necessity,  drawn  along  in  the 
glee  of  the  bridal  procession.  And  this  is  what  may 
deceive :  we  are  in  the  right  way,  indeed,  but  it  is  by 


The  Sleep,  and  the  Waking.  3 1 9 


no  effort,  no  will,  of  our  own;  .and,  therefore,  this  by 
itself  will  not  suffice  us  to  carry  us  safe  home.  No ; 
this  is  the  foolishness  of  the  foolish  five,  that  they  trust 
to  the  lamp  already  lighted  ;  and  yet  the  oil  already  in 
the  lamp  cannot  hold  out  through  the  long  slumber  and 
sleep.  Here  lies  the  sole  difference  between  the  wise 
and  the  foolish  :  the  wise  had  private  additional  store  of 
oil  hid  away  in  their  own  little  vessels,  so  that  the  lamp 
lighted  for  them  may  be  trimmed  and  refilled  by  their 
own  peculiar  oil.  The  common  inheritance  of  grace 
brought  down  to  us  by  a  Catholic  Church, — this  is  the 
beginning  of  salvation.  But  this  cannot  carry  us 
through,  unless  deep  in  our  own  secret  heart  of  hearts 
we  have  stored  up  the  hidden  oil  of  expectant  love, — the 
expectant  love  that  looks  with  a  personal  and  peculiar 
tenderness  to  the  days  of  the  coming ;  the  love  of  the 
inner  heart  for  Him  Who,  after  long  delay,  after  long- 
slumbering  and  sleeping,  afcer  long  watching  in  life, 
and  long  silence  in  death,  is  still  waited  for  with 
intense  devotion,  with  living  personal  earnestness;  the 
thoughtful,  anxious,  careful  love,  that  does  not  rest  in 
its  own  vague  impulses  and  shallow  fancies,  but  makes 
itself  ready  with  given  grace  of  God,  so  that,  when  the 
day  comes,  there  may  be  not  merely  the  blind,  impotent, 
human  impulse,  crying,  "  Lord,  Lord,  open  to  us ;  "  but 
more  than  this,  the  oil  prepared  of  God ;  the  grace 
which  the  flame  of  the  spirit  recognises  as  its  fuel,  and 
with  which  it  is  glad  to  replenish  itself ;  the  oil  which 
each  single  soul  must  have  laid  up,  with  secret  fore- 
thought, in  the  recesses  of  its  own  being  for  that  day. 

Be  wise,  then,  in  time,— now,  on  the  day  of  the  first 
coming,  when  He  comes  to  light  our  lamps  for  us  Who 


320  The  Sleep,  and  the  Waking. 


is  Himself  the  Bridegroom  of  the  Second  Advent.  Oh  ! 
be  prudent,  be  quick,  be  wise :  for,  indeed,  heavy  is  the 
slumber  that  must  so  quickly  creep  over  us, — soon, 
so  terribly  soon,  cometh  the  irrevocable  sleep  !  We  are 
in  the  night  still ;  but  yet  we  may  not  be  idle ;  now, 
or  never,  in  the  dark  hours  of  waiting,  the  heart  must 
be  made  ready.  '  For  that  day,  when  it  cometh,  as  come 
it  will,  can  then  no  longer  suffer  one  moment's  delay. 
Then,  at  that  hour,  if  we  be  not  already  prepared  to  go 
in,  we  may  never  enter.  No  loud  cry  will  avail,  no 
tardy  preparation  :  the  day  is  past :  "  Too  late  !  too  late  ! 
ye  cannot  enter  now  ! " 

One  thing,  one  certain  hope,  remains :  the  time  is 
short;  but  yet,  while  there  is  yet  time,  let  us  urge,  let 
us  beseech  each  other,  to  make  sure  that  we  lay  up 
once  again,  and  with  more  devoted  faith,  more  passionate 
earnestness,  more  steady  love  than  before,  each  in  his 
own  soul-vessel,  the  one  oil  of  gladness,  the  one  gift  of 
grace,  that  very  Flesh  and  Blood  of  Him  Whose  pierced 
Body  every  eye  shall  see  hereafter.  Let  us  lay  it  up, 
not  looking  for  the  glory  of  fruition  here,  not  looking 
for  fruit,  for  ease,  for  comfort,  but  storing  it  up,  in  silence, 
and  patience,  and  love,  for  that  great  day  when  the 
trumpet  shall  sound  through  the  night,  and  a  great  cry 
is  heard  under  the  stars,  "  Behold,  the  Bridegroom 
cometh  !  Go  ye  out  to  meet  Him," — and  we  shall  rise 
from  our  slumber,  and  shall,  with  joy  and  gladness, 
trim  our  lamps  once  more  with  the  oil  of  our  old  earth- 
gathered  devotion,  and  press  in  within  the  gates  to  the 
marriage  feast,  before  it  be  too  late,  and  the  door  be 
shut. 


A   ni:ii  EDITION. 


Books  and  Reading. 

BY 

NOAH  PORTER,  LL.D.,  President  of  Yale  College, 

With  an  appendix  giving  valuable  directions  for  courses  oj 
reading,  prepared  by  James  M.  Hubbard,  late 
of  the  Boston  Public  Library. 

1   vol  ,  crown  8vo.,         -         -         -  $2  OC. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  name  any  American  better  qualified 
than  President  Porter  to  give  advice  upon  the  important 
question  of  "  What  to  Read  and  How  to  Read."  His 
acquaintance  with  the  whole  range  of  English  literature  is 
most  thorough  and  exact,  and  his  judgments  are  eminently 
candid  and  mature.  A  safer  guide,  in  short,  in  all  literary 
matters^  it  would  be  impossible  to  find. 


"The  great  value  of  the  book  lies  not  in  prescribing  courses  of  reading,  but  in  a 
discussion  of  principles,  which  lie  at  the  foundation  of  all  valuable  systematic  reading." 

—  The  Christian  Standard. 

'•Voting  people  who  wish  to  know  what  to  read  and  how  to  read  it,  or  how  to  pursue 
a  particular  course  of  reading,  cannot  do  better  than  begin  with  this  book,  which  is  a 
practical  guide  to  the  whole  domain  of  literature,  and  is  full  of  wise  suggestions  for  the 
improvement  of  the  mind." — Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

"  President  Porter  himself  treats  of  all  the  leading  departments  of  literature  of  course 
with  abundant  knowledge,  and  with  what  is  of  equal  importance  to  him,  wiih  a  very 
definite  and  serious  purpose  to  be  of  service  to  inexperienced  readers.  There  is  no  hetter 
or  more  interesting  book  of  its  kind  now  within  their  reach." — Boston  Advertiser. 

"  President  Noah  Porter's  '  Books  and  Reading  '  is  far  the  most  practical  and  •■atis- 
factory  treatise  on  the  subject  that  has  been  published.  It  not  only  answers  the  qnestions 
'  What  books  shall  I  read  ?'  and  '  How  shall  I  read  them?'  but  it  supplies  a  large  and 
well-arranged  catalogue  under  appropriate  heads,  sufficient  for  a  large  family  or  a  small 
public  library."— Boston  Zion's  Herald. 


***  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of 
price,  by 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  Publishers, 

743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


The  Theory  of  Preaching, 

OR 

LECTURES    ON  HOMILETICS. 

By   Professor   AUSTIN    PHELPS,  D.D. 


One  volume..  8vo,       ■»  $2.50 


This  work,  now  offered  to  the  public,  is  the  growth  of 
more  than  thirty  years'  practical  experience  in  teaching. 
While  primarily  designed  for  professional  readers,  it  will  be 
found  to  contain  much  that  will  be  of  interest  to  thoughtful 
laymen.  The  writings  of  a  master  of  style  of  broad  and 
catholic  mind  are  always  fascinating ;  in  the  present  case  the 
wealth  of  appropriate  and  pointed  illustration  renders  this 
doubly  the  case, 

CRITIC  A  L  NOTICES. 

"  In  the  range  of  Protestant  homiletical  literature,  we  venture  to  nffiim  that  its  equal 
cannot  be  found  for  a  conscientious,  scholarly,  and  exhaustive  treatment  of  the  theory 
and  practice  of  preaching.  *  *  *  To  the  treatment  of  his  subject  Dr.  Phelps  brings 
su:h  qualifications  as  very  few  men  now  living  possess.  His  is  one  of  those  «lelicate  and 
sensitive  natures  which  are  instinctively  critical,  and  yet  full  of  what  Matthew  Arnold 
happily  calls  sweet  reasonableness.  *  *  *  To  this  characteristic  graciousness  of 
nature  Dr.  Phelps  adds  a  style  which  is  preeminently  adapted  to  his  special  work.  It  is 
nervous,  epigrammatic,  and  racy.'' — The  Examiner  and  Chronicle. 

"It  is  a  wise,  spirited,  practical  and  devout  treatise  upon  a  topic  of  the  utmost  con- 
sequence to  pastors  and  people  alike,  and  to  the  salvation  of  mankind.  It  is  elaborate 
but  not  redundant,  rich  in  the  fruits  of  experience,  yet  thoroughly  timely  and  current, 
and  it  easily  takes  the  very  first  rank  among  volumes  of  its  class.  —  The  Congrega- 
tionalist.  m 

"The  layman  will  find  it  delightful  reading,  and  ministers  of  all  denominations  and 
of  all  degrees  of  experience  will  rejoice  in  it  as  a  veritable  mine  of  wisdom." — A'riv  York 
Christian  Ad7>ocate, 

"The  volume  is  to  be  commended  to  voung  men  as  a  superb  example  of  the  art  in 
which  it  aims  to  instruct  them." — The  Independent. 

"The  reading  of  it  is  a  mental  tonic.  The  preacher  cannot  but  feel  often  his  heart 
burning  within  him  under  its  influence.  We  could  wish  it  might  be  in  the  hands  of  every 
theological  student  and  of  every  pastor."  —  The  Watchman. 

"Thirty-one  years  of  experience  as  a  professor  of  homiletics  in  a  leading  American 
Theological  Seminary  by  a  man  of  genius,  learning  and  power,  are  condensed  into  this 
valuable  volume."  —  Christian  Intelligencer. 

"  Our  professional  readers  will  make  a  great  mistake  if  they  suppose  this  volume  is 
simply  a  heavy,  monotonous  discussion,  chiefly  adapted  to  the  class-room.  It  is  a 
delightful  volume  for  general  reading." — Boston  Zioiis  Herald. 


***  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  oj 
price,  by 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  Publishers. 

743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York, 


Men  and  Books; 


OR,   STUDIES   IN  HOMILETICS. 

Lectures  Introductory  to  the  "Theory  of  Preaching." 
By  Professor  AUSTIN  PHELPS,  D.D. 


One  Volume.    Crown  8vo.         -         -  $2.00 


Professor  Phelps'  second  volume  of  lectures  is  more  popular  and  gen- 
eral in  its  application  than  "The  Theory  of  Preaching."  It  is  devoted  to 
a  discussion  of  the  sources  of  culture  and  power  in  the  profession  of  the 
pulpit,  its  power  to  absorb  and  appropriate  to  its  own  uses  the  world  of 
real  life  in  the  present  and  the  world  of  the  past,  as  it  lives  in  books. 

There  is  but  little  in  the  volume  that  is  not  just  as  valuable  to  all 
students  looking  forward  to  a  learned  profession  as  to  theological  students, 
and  the  charm  of  the  style  and  the  lofty  tone  of  the  book  make  it  difficult 
to  lay  it  down  when  it  is  once  taken  up. 


"  It  is  a  hook  obviously  free  from  all  padding.  It  is  a  life  book,  animated  as  well 
as  sound  and  instructive,  in  which  conventionalities  are  brushed  aside,  and  the  author 
goes  straight  to  the  marrow  of  the  subject.  No  minister  can  read  it  without  being  waked 
up  to  a  higher  conception  of  the  possibilities  of  his  calling." 

— Professor  George  P.  Fisher. 

14  It  is  one  of  the  most  helpful  books  in  the  interests  of  self-culiure  that  has  ever  been 
written.  While  specially  mt<  nde  for  young  clergymen,  it  is  almost  equally  well  adapted 
for  students  in  all  the  liberal  professions." — Standard  of  the  Cross. 

"  We  are  sure  that  no  minister  or  candidate  for  the  ministry  can  read  it  without  profit. 
It  is  a  tonic  for  one's  mind  to  read  a  book  so  laden  with  thought  and  suggestion,  and 
written  in  a  style  so  fresh,  strong  and  bracing." — Boston  Watchman. 

"  Viewed  in  this  light,  for  their  orderly  and  wise  and  rich  suggestiveness,  thece  lec- 
ture of  Professor  Phelps  are  of  simply  incomparable  merit.  Every  page  is  crowded  with 
observatioi  s  and  suggestions  of  striking  pertinence  and  force,  and  of  that  kind  of  wisdom 
which  touc  les  the  roots  of  a  matter.  Should  one  bctjin  to  make  quotations  illustrative  of 
this  remark,  there  would  be  no  end  of  them.  While  the  book  is  meant  specially  for  the 
preac  ier,  so  rich  is  it  in  sase  remark,  in  acute  discernment,  in  penetrating  observation  of 
how  m  n  are  most  apt  to  be  influenced,  and  what  are  the  most  telling  qualifies  in  the  va- 
rious forms  of  literary  expression,  it  niu^t  become  a  favorite  treatise  with  the  best  minds  m 
all  the  other  professions.  The  author  is.  in  a  very  high  sense  of  the  term,  an  artist,  as  for 
a  quarter  of  a  century  he  has  been  one  of  the  most  skillful  instructors  of  young  men  in 
that  which  is  the  noblest  of  all  the  arts." — Chicago         t ace. 


*#*  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  post-paid,  upon  receipt  of 
price,  by 

'  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  Pinn.isHKKS, 

743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York. 


Old  Faiths  in  New  Light 

BY 

NEWMAN  SMYTH, 

Author  of  "  The  Religions  Feeling.'1'' 

One  Volume,  12mo,  cloth,       -  $l.SO. 


This  work  aims  to  meet  a  growing  need  by  gathering  materials  of 
faith  which  have  been  quarried  by  many  specialists  in  their  own  depart- 
ments of  Biblical  study  and  scientific  research,  and  by  endeavoring  to 
put  these  results  of  recent  scholarship  together  according  to  one  leading 
idea  in  a  modern  construction  of  old  faith  Mr.  Smyth's  book  is  remark- 
able no  less  for  its  learning  and  wide  acquaintance  with  prevailing  modes 
of  thought,  than  for  its  fairness  and  judicial  spirit. 


CRITICAL  NOTICES. 

"The  author  is  logical  and  therefore  clear.  He  also  is  master  of  a  singularly 
attractive  literary  style.  l''ew  writers,  whose  books  come  under  our  eye,  succeed  in 
treating  metaphysical  and  philosophical  themes  in  a  manner  at  once  so  forcible  and  so 
Interesting.  We  speak  strongly  about  this  book,  because  we  think  it  exceptionally 
valuable.  It  is  just  such  a  book  as  ought  to  be  in  the  hands  of  all  intelligent  men  and 
women  who  have  received  an  education  sufficient  to  enable  them  to  read  intelligently 
about  such  subjects  as  are  discussed  herein,  and  the  number  of  such  persons  is  very 
much  larger  than  some  people  think.'1 — Congrcgationalist. 

"  We  have  before  had  occasion  to  notice  the  iWce  and  elegance  of  this  writer,  and 
hi  -  new  book  shows  scholarship  even  more  advanced.  *  *  *  When  we  say.  with 
some  knowledge  of  how  much  is  undertaken  by  the  saying,  that  there  is  probably  no  book 
of  moderate  compass  which  combines  in  greater  degree  clearness  of  style  with  profundity 
of  subject  and  of  reasoning,  we  fulfil  simple  duty  to  an  author  whose  success  is  all  the 
more  marked  and  gratifying  from  the  multitude  of  kindred  attempts  with  which  we  have 
b.en  flooded  from  all  sorts  of  pens." — Presbyterian. 

"The  book  impresses  us  as  clear,  cogent  and  helpful,  as  vigorous  in  style  as  it  is 
honest  in  purpose,  and  calculated  to  render  valuable  service  in  showing  that  religion  and 
science  an-  not  antagonists  but  allies,  and  that  both  lead  up  toward  the  one  God.  We 
fancy  that  a  good  many  readers  of  this  volume  will  entertain  toward  the  author  a  feeling 
of  sincere  personal  gratitude." — Boston  Journal. 

"  On  the  whol  •,  we  do  not  know  of  a  book  which  may  better  be  commended  to 
thoughtful  persons  whose  minds  have  been  unsettled  by  objections  of  modern  thought. 
It  will  be  found  a  wholesome  work  for  every  minister  in  the  land  to  read." 

—  Examiner  and  Chronicle. 

"  It  is  a  long  time  since  we  have  met  with  an  abler  or  fresher  theological  treatise 
than  Old  Faiths  in  Nem  Light,  by  Newman  Smyth,  an  author  who  in  his  work  on 
"The  Religious  Feeling"  has  already  shown  ability  as  an  expounder  of  Christian 
doctrine."  — Independent. 

***For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid,  upon   receipt  of  price, 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS, 

Nos.  743  and  745  Broadway,  New  York 


* 


